


Dreams And Visions

by acme146



Series: Sleeping On It 'Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Bisexual John Watson, Demisexual Sherlock, Domestics (both good and bad), Dreamwalking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hidden relationship (ACD), Individual Tags Within, M/M, Only chapter 44 I promise, Past Child Abuse, Relationship Study, Trans Character, temporary major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-25 18:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 71,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6206167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acme146/pseuds/acme146
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days and nights in the lives of Sherlock and John, and Holmes and Watson after the Dream. They're not always happy, they don't always win, but they will always be together, and maybe that's all they need, in the end. </p><p>Sequel to 'Sleeping on It'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Matter of Family (BBC)

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello there everyone! Here it is, the one-shot Johnlock series in the Sleeping on It verse. Here there be many headcanons and cheerful blending of canons, plenty of fluff and hopefully a satisfying happy ending for these ridiculous, wonderful men.  
> This first chapter starts in BBC world, about two months after the Dream.

Sherlock didn’t want to talk about It.

He and John had been as blissfully happy as an irritating older brother, infuriating Yarders and an overly-indulgent landlady could allow a couple to be. Nearly two months into their new relationship, they had yet to have a ‘couple-fight’ (This was established after John had pointed out that the domestics they had before they were a couple didn’t count as their first fight, no matter what. Sherlock had lost that argument—“which isn’t a fight either, love”—and had been careful ever since.)

Moriarty had been quiet, there were enough cases to keep them busy but not too busy, still plenty of time for candlelit dinners at Angelo’s and afternoons looking over cold cases, and they’d even _gone to the cinema together_. Sherlock wanted very badly to protest this arrangement, but got caught up in the spy story. (He did not ‘have a spy thing’, not at all. John was simply extrapolating from two film preferences, and anyways, John had chosen the films, hadn’t he?)

And Sherlock was happy, really happy for the first time in his life. Even early days with John, before the Dream (John called it the Night, but that wasn’t very specific, it had nothing to do with ‘magic moonlight’, as Mrs. Hudson said). He had a lover, something he’d never asked for, and found that it was better than everyone always said. Things were so usually backwards to that, and he didn’t want to spoil it.

So Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it.

But he couldn’t forget.

He tried, but he couldn’t delete the look on Holmes’ face when he asked whether John had told him about his family. How Watson hadn’t told Holmes about it until after fifteen years of friendship. How it was that revelation, more than Afghanistan, the horrors they saw as detectives, or even the ‘solution’ to Moriarty, that taught Holmes that Watson ‘hides his pain well’.

Sherlock heard John scream from nightmares every so often from the first night they shared a flat. He saw him turn green at the sight of an arson that killed a family of seven, saw a flicker of fear in his eyes when Moriarty was mentioned. They were normal reactions, subdued perhaps but still appropriate to the situation. Before the Dream he assumed that John Watson was as English as his name, and emotion was simply not done.

Now he knew for a fact that wasn’t true. John was open with his affection, clear with annoyance and laughed as loud as Sherlock did at crime scenes (well, they weren’t supposed to giggle, what else could they do?) It was only pain he hid, and Sherlock wanted to know why. He needed to make plans, specific to important details, so that John would never be hurt again.

Talking about it, on the other hand…

In the end it was John who started the conversation. They were sitting on the couch together, Sherlock paging through his email while John typed up their last case, head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Mrs. Hudson had gone shopping, as there were no more biscuits for tea and that was a Bit Not Good.

The sun was coming in at an awkward angle and John grumbled as he tilted his laptop screen back and forth, always coming back to the same position. Sherlock grinned.

“Mycroft does that too.”

John looked up at him. “What?”

“Well, he normally does it with books. He insisted on reading outside so Mummy wouldn’t fuss at him for exercise—he needed it even then—and the sun was his constant enemy. He kept trying to make the light fall differently, but he would always end up holding the book the same way without even realizing.” He sighed. “Should have known then he was going to be a controlling, stubborn…”

“Alright Sherlock,” John said, but he was smiling as he stopped moving his screen.

Sherlock hesitated only a second. If this wasn’t the right time, when would it be? “Did Harry do anything like that?”

John stopped typing. “Like what?”

“You know, those mundane little habits that people pick up in childhood and never get rid of?” Sherlock ached to watch his lover’s face, but he knew that wasn’t a good idea.

John leaned away from him, just enough to make it seem natural. “I don’t think so, not really. She’s quite a bit older than me, you know.”

Sherlock looked at him. “Mycroft and I are seven years apart, while you and Harry are barely five. You would have been around her more often than I with Mycroft. Why don’t you remember?” Sherlock felt his gut tighten. John had an excellent memory.

“I don’t know,” John said. “You tell me.”

It was a joke between them, a come-on for Sherlock to use his “bloody brilliant” powers and coax the information out of his silent but smiling lover. It was fun, although apparently it ranged from ‘adorable’ to ‘vomit-inducing’ in public.

John wasn’t smiling right now. He had pulled away from Sherlock completely .

“You were never close,” Sherlock said.

“Well, no, obviously not—I already told you that bit.” John was tense.

“But were you ever close to anyone?” Sherlock mused. “I don’t think you were, though I can’t imagine why.”   _How could anyone not love you, John?_

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

John stood up quickly, backing away from the couch. “Yes, I know, family’s meant to care about each other. I think you’d better drop it, Sherlock.”

“Why?” Sherlock challenged. “I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?” John snapped. “That I have no living family?”

“Yes you do,” Sherlock replied, baffled.

“No, Sherlock. No, I don’t, and I haven’t for most of my life.”

“They abused you,” Sherlock guessed.  

That was very clearly the wrong thing to say.

John stepped back, closed his eyes. His left hand was trembling.  He turned around and walked up the stairs to his old room. A few seconds later, Sherlock heard the door slam.

Not Good.

* * *

 

Sherlock was so wrapped in his own misery that he didn’t hear John come downstairs in the darkness, long after tea had been forgotten.  Didn’t notice him at all, in fact, until he was standing in the doorway of their room.

 “Sherlock?” John sounded tired and…sore, the way he sounded after a long day of work and chasing criminals. Sherlock’s heart ached in response.

 “Sherlock, I’m…I’m sorry dear.”

Sherlock, who’d been on the point of reciting his thousand apologies, looked up in amazement.

John stood in front of him, hands in his pockets. His eyes looked funny, though they weren’t red. He’d probably not been blinking enough, Sherlock deduced—John did that when he was upset, it was one of his tells.

Sherlock laid his hands by his sides. “I don’t follow. You have no reason to apologize to me, I intruded on a painful subject and made deductions after you told me to stop. You’ve been attempting to teach me common courtesy when dealing with strangers, and here I can’t maintain the proper behaviour with my own lover. The blame is entirely on my side, and I don’t fault you for losing your temper.”

John shook his head. “I wasn’t mad at you. I mean, yes I was, because you did push it, but…I didn’t want to talk about it, and that wasn’t really fair.”

 “It clearly caused you discomfort,” Sherlock frowned. “Why is that unfair?”

 “Maybe because you’re my lover, and my flatmate, and my friend, and you deserve to know why I don’t want to talk about my family?” John retorted.  

 “I could deduce that for myself,” Sherlock said.

 “You shouldn’t have to,” John said quietly. “Don’t you get it? There’s supposed to be talking and…baring of feelings, in relationships. You’ve told me about your family, and your nemeses, some of whom you think are your family" (Sherlock rolled his eyes)…"hell, you shared your whole world with me.”

 “Not all of it,” Sherlock admitted, feeling a little uncomfortable. Since when was he the open one of the two of them? “Just the parts that I think will interest you.”

 “Yeah, but I didn’t even ask if you were interested in my life before you, I just didn’t say anything and let your deductions be enough. That wasn’t fair to you.”

Sherlock thought this over. “I am interested,” he said carefully, “but not because I particularly relish the details. I am interested because your past is part of you, and I am beginning to realize it shaped you in ways I did not consider.”

John rubbed a hand over his face. “I wish it hadn’t. I tried not to let it.”

Sherlock hesitated, then patted the bed next to him. John came over slowly, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. Sherlock held out his hand and John took it.

John took a deep breath. “I don’t think I’m ready…to go into all of it.”

Sherlock waited.

 “But you deserve to hear the broad strokes, at least.” John’s grip tightened on his hand.

 “My parents didn’t want me. They as good as told me right from the beginning, and I was expected to deal with that. I was never starving or anything like that, but when I wasn’t perfect…well, Father always made his displeasure clear.”

Sherlock thought back to the marks he’d seen on John’s back, his shoulders. He’d known they were too old to be from war, too deliberate to be from rugby accidents…but he hadn’t asked.

 “Mother wasn’t unkind to me, but she died when I was eight and then it was just Harry and I with Dad. It was bad for quite a while—when she came out, when she started to drink as much as Dad, when she refused to go to school anymore—well. I had to be the perfect child. There was no reward in it, no congratulations: I wasn’t supposed to be alive so I had to make up for the mistakes of the daughter he adored. Still adores, despite everything.”

Sherlock realized he was gripping John’s hand too tightly. He tried to loosen his grip, but John hung on more tightly.

 “I  got good grades, and I was smart, and I got into uni a year early. I saved what I could and I had some money from my granddad. He was good to me; gave me my first _Gray’s Anatomy_ , actually. He was a soldier when he was young.”

That detail, a throwaway sentence to anyone else, explained everything.

 “So I got into pre-med and became a surgeon, then I went to war. Why not? I wanted to do some good in the world, and it wasn’t like anyone would miss me. I did three years in Afghanistan, got shot, and flew into an airport with no one there to greet me.” John smiled, but it was shaky. “Then I met a madman and fell in love.”

There was a long pause; Sherlock could tell John wasn’t quite done.

 “I tried to love them,” John whispered. “More than anything. But I just couldn’t.”

Sherlock pulled John into his arms, letting him bury his face in the crook of his neck. “They didn’t love you,” he whispered.

 “Why should that matter? They were my family.”

Sherlock just held him for a few long minutes, running his hand up and down John’s back, trying to avoid the scars. He pressed a kiss to John’s bad shoulder, then to his temple then tilted John’s face so he could kiss his forehead. John stared back at him, eyes soft with pain.

 “There was nothing you could have done.” John tried to protest but Sherlock held firm. “John, they hurt you. They made you think you were nothing. You were very lonely, weren’t you?”

John didn’t reply, trembling in his arms.

 “And you grew up into a kind, brave, wise man anyways,” Sherlock continued in a low voice. “And you fell into company with others like you, but you couldn’t see that, because no one ever told you that you were wonderful. And why would they tell you that? They must’ve thought you knew.”

John buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, I’m not—”

 “You were wrong about one other thing too,” Sherlock whispered.

 “What?”

 “You’ve got a living family. You’ve got Mrs. Hudson, Greg…even Molly and Mycroft.”

John wasn’t trembling so badly anymore, but he still wasn’t looking at Sherlock.

 “And you have me, too.” Sherlock made John look at him. “I’ll be your family as long as you want me. You love better and stronger than anyone I’ve ever met, and if you can’t find it in your heart to love those you were born to, the fault’s on them, not you.”

John kissed him instead of replying, but Sherlock knew what he meant.

 “If you do want to talk about this another time, we can.”

John wiped his eyes. “I think that might have done it. I didn’t know I was worrying about all of that.” He smiled. “You did, though. Thank you, dear.”

 “It’s my business to know, especially about you,” Sherlock replied.

John kissed him again, longer this time. “Thank you for being family. For sharing yours. For everything.”

 “You’re not alone anymore John,” Sherlock said seriously.  “And you never will be again.”

He knew he’d have to say it again, maybe a thousand times before John would believe it, but he’d say it every day for the rest of their lives if he had to.

That’s what you did for family, after all.

                               

               

               


	2. Inquiries on Behalf of the Crown (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson can't quite escape scrutiny of his relationship with Holmes...especially not from a 'superior intellect'

                Watson should have known something was afoot the moment Holmes sent him to the Diogenes Club to ‘pick something up’.

                But Mycroft Holmes had just helped them on a case, Holmes was abed ‘not sick, Watson, merely tired’ and Watson enjoyed the elder Holmes’ company.

                When he entered the Strangers Room and saw only Mycroft Holmes, no parcel or letter to be seen, however, Watson grew nervous.

                “Good afternoon, Dr. Watson!” Mycroft Holmes was as large as ever, his gray eyes still piercing, but his handshake was friendly enough. “Would you care for tea?”

                “No, thank you,” Watson replied. “Your brother sent me to pick something up from you…?”

                Mycroft Holmes gestured to the chairs, waiting until Watson took a seat to sit down himself. “That, I’m afraid, was a falsehood on my part. The necessary evidence has already been collected by Scotland Yard.”

                Watson shifted uneasily. “Then why am I here?”

                Mycroft Holmes looked Watson straight in the eye. “I believe you know, Doctor.”  
                Watson froze. He couldn’t know…could he? And if he did, what then?

                “Rest assured, Doctor, that Sherlock informed me himself of the new…nature of your relationship.”  
                Watson rolled his eyes, relieved. “He didn’t think to pass that on to me.”

                “I asked him not to.” Mycroft Holmes’ face was stern. “I wanted to speak with you privately before relaying what Sherlock and I discussed.”

                Watson swallowed. “Of course.” It was odd, this; he’d been in similar situations before, but never when the stakes were quite so high.

                “Let me see if I understood my little brother correctly. Your feelings for him are not only friendly, but romantic. My brother has revealed that those feelings are mutual, and you have both decided to keep quiet on the matter to avoid scandal and imprisonment.”

                “Correct,” Watson said; there was hardly any point in lying. “I would not risk Holmes’ safety, nor he mine.”

                “Yet you continue to live together, work together and are frequently seen in public together.”

                “As we have for many years,” Watson replied evenly. “Those of our acquaintance know us as friends, and we are careful not to appear otherwise to strangers. It is not an assumption many would make.”

                “And those who would?” Mycroft’s expression darkened. “Those who live to create scandal, who brandish insinuations like swords against the reputations of good men?”

                Watson swallowed. “That is my worst fear,” he said quietly. “We do everything we can to keep up appearances, to give no scrap of conversation nor deed that could substantiate such a rumour. We have done so for six months, and none has questioned us.”

                Mycroft Holmes leaned back in his chair. “And that is good, but can you do this forever? You and Sherlock are both still fairly young, and despite your line of work you could easily live another twenty years. Can you pretend for that long that there is nothing between you?”

                Watson’s mouth went dry. “What would you suggest, then?”

                “I would suggest you find your own place to live,” Mycroft Holmes replied. “If you do not live together, and if you consult on his cases only occasionally, then you would arouse far less suspicion. Who would suspect two men who deliberately chose to lessen their time together of being in love?”

                Watson imagined living alone again, as he had briefly after Afghanistan, and then again when Mary died. He imagined only practicing medicine, seeing Holmes perhaps once or twice a month. He shuddered.

                Then he understood.

                “I’m afraid that simply won’t do,” he answered, looking Mycroft in the eye. “If I do that, then we will both become lonely. We will suffer from lack of interaction, and might end up doing something desperate that will certainly give us away. We are satisfied with what we have now, though it is not what we want.”

                Mycroft Holmes smiled then, his eyes lighting up. “I am delighted to see you understand yourself, Doctor.”

                “I understand Holmes and I,” Watson replied. “I must, after so long.” He paused. “I don’t like this much, Mr. Holmes, but it is how we must be. I am willing to live this way.”

                Mycroft held out a hand, and Watson shook it. “You’re a brave man, Dr. Watson, and I wish that things might be easier for you and Sherlock. Though it’s rather unorthodox, I am glad that Sherlock has found you. He’s been happy in your friendship, but since your revelation he has been the happiest I have ever seen him. I will do what I can to ease your way.”

                “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

                “You may use my first name, Dr. Watson.”

                “Then it must be John…Mycroft.” Watson grinned awkwardly. “It may take some time to get used to that.”

                “I agree, John,” Mycroft said. “But not every adjustment is unpleasant.”

                “You really support us?” Watson asked before he could stop himself.

                Mycroft steepled his fingers. “I cannot say that it is exactly what I envisioned for Sherlock—I did not think he would give his heart at all, and certainly not to a forbidden lover. But then again Sherlock’s never done what I predicted, and he’s often ended up the happier for it. And you are a good man, John, that much is obvious. So long as you do not cause him pain, I am happy to support you.” Gray eyes turned to steel. “And you will not cause him pain, correct?”

                “Never,” Watson promised.

                “Splendid. Are you sure you don’t want tea?”

                Watson looked at his lover’s brother, who had every reason to denounce them, to disapprove, yet warmly proclaimed his support instead. “Actually, I’m not expected home for a while yet, I imagine. I’d be delighted, Mycroft.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Questions? Prompts? Feel free to type them in that box below.  
> Cheers, Acme


	3. Mary Did You Know? (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-slash. Mary Morstan has a decision to make before she says her vows.

                Mrs. Dr. John Watson.

                Mary Watson.

                Mary Watson, née Morstan.

                Mary had practiced her signature many times since accepting John’s ring, but she still couldn’t quite believe that it was about to become her permanent name.

                The small church was crowded with off-duty policemen, several of the scrubbed-up Irregular lads and a few of her friends from boarding school. John was probably (hopefully) at the altar, waiting with his best man, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

                Mary sighed. She’d hoped to avoid thinking about the man until after she was Mrs. Watson, after she had crossed the last hurdle.

                She thought Sherlock Holmes was a good man, a good friend to John despite what everyone said, and he’d been nothing less than courteous to her. She was happy to have him in her life.

                But…

                Mary was innocent, but not naïve. She knew that love was between man and woman, that marriage was the highest form of love, and that she and John were meant to be together.

                But….

                John loved her dearly—even she who’d never been in love before knew that. And she loved him desperately and truly…he was her ideal, her partner. They would get married and have children, build a little family. Live happily ever after.

                But…

                But…there was also Sherlock Holmes.

                She knew that the way John looked at his friend was beyond friendship, beyond law—and one time, just once when she’d come into Baker Street to find John asleep on the sofa, she saw Sherlock Holmes looking at him the same way.

                Mary would never tell, of course. She couldn’t bear the thought of John in jail, nor even Sherlock. The love in John’s eyes was quiet, a little sad, and hopeless; it would do no harm to anyone, not even her. After all, John did love her.

                But he didn’t love her alone.

                Mr. Cecil Forrester came in then. “Are you ready, Mary?”

                Mary smiled at him. “I am, sir. Is my fiancé?”

                “He’s been up there for close to an hour.”

                “I didn’t mean to make him wait,” Mary said, stricken.

                Mr. Forrester’s eyes twinkled. “He only had to be here twenty minutes ago. He’s more eager than many a lad I’ve seen.”

                Mary let herself relax. “Will your wife do me the honour of arranging my flowers? I still do not possess her knack, and I want everything to be beautiful.”

                Mr. Forrester bowed his head. “I’ll fetch her.”

                Alone again, Mary looked into the glass. Her plain face seemed out of place surrounded by bridal finery. She was no beautiful bride, but she would be blushing. A sudden, wild thought came to her—of Sherlock Holmes made female, _Miss_ Holmes, about to become Mrs. Watson. She would be beautiful.

                If Sherlock Holmes were a woman, would John have ever looked at Mary? And more importantly, what was she to do with the obvious answer?

                She let Mrs. Forrester fuss with her bouquet, took Mr. Forrester’s arm, and walked down the aisle towards John, whose eyes were shining with tears of joy. _Poor man_ , she thought. _He’s wanted this for so long._

                Mary smiled up at the man who had saved her from loneliness, who loved her despite loving the man beside him. The man she loved with all her heart.

                Could she accept only most of his?

                “I do.”

               

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is the first multi-part story, which shares a certain...theme, shall we say? with this one. Thanks for reading!


	4. A Proposed Arrangement (pt.1 of 4) (BBC arc)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thinks Sherlock's lost his mind.

                It was an ordinary Saturday when Sherlock lost his mind.

                That’s what John deduced, at least.

                Sherlock brought him breakfast in bed for a start. It wasn’t any special day at _all_ , and Sherlock had a horror of crumbs in the sheets despite John’s repeated assurances that he’d wash the sheets himself the one time he’d brought his partner breakfast. Yet here he was at ten, John’s alarm cleverly silenced hours before, with toast and tea and bacon and eggs. And _smiling._

                “Not that I’m complaining, but what’s the occasion?” John asked as he tucked in. Sherlock had brought his own tray in too, and indicated that his mouth was full. Even when his plate was completely clear of crumbs, he still refused to say what was going on.

                “I thought we could spend the day together, that’s all,” Sherlock said.

                John had no objections; they’d just got back from a case in Thailand, they could do with a rest. They spent the rest of the morning watching _Midsomer Murders_ on John’s laptop. That was all they could do, because the Internet seemed to be down. Sherlock explained that he didn’t feel like fixing it, and they had all of those discs, so why not?

                Lunch was tea and risotto with some of John’s shortbread biscuits on the side. John suggested they go outside—or at least open the curtains—but Sherlock claimed that he was testing a plant’s ability to grow in stale air and artificial light, and he wanted to keep conditions stable for at least 12 hours. He wouldn’t tell John where the plant was. Instead, Sherlock told John stories about old cases, which were interesting, but not as interesting as why on earth Sherlock didn’t want them to go outside.

                There was no point asking, John knew. Sherlock was getting better at sharing things since they’d become partners, but he still had a flair for the dramatic. If there was a surprise brewing, John wouldn’t see it until it happened.

                They dozed off together in the later afternoon, John’s hand firmly around Sherlock’s wrist so he’d wake up immediately if he moved. The detective didn’t stir, however, and when John woke up it was getting dark. Sherlock was staring at him intently.

                “Sherlock, dear, what’s going on?” John said drowsily.

                Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it, looking uncertain for the briefest moment. Then he leaned down and kissed John gently. “Get dressed,” he said when he pulled away. “I’ll explain when we get there.”

                John knew better to ask questions, but there were several burning on the tip of his tongue as he pulled on the clothes Sherlock had laid out for him— jeans, a dark shirt, a cream coloured jumper, and his old leather jacket. Sherlock was dressed in a white shirt and a black blazer, and he pulled his coat and his old scarf on as they went out the door. A cab was hailed in an instant, and they were off.

                They held hands on the ride. Sherlock didn’t talk much and John stared out the window, trying to figure out where they were going.

                When they finally got out John had a strong sense of déjà vu. They were staring up at an old building. There was no crime scene tape or Yarders, but John knew exactly where they were.

                “Why are we at Lauriston Gardens, Sherlock?”

                Sherlock looked hesitant.

                John pressed on. “This is where Jennifer Wilson died, right?”

                Sherlock reached out for his hand. “John, just…just come upstairs, alright?”

                John allowed Sherlock to lead him into the house, heart pounding. For the first time in a long time he didn’t want to know what Sherlock was hiding. Or rather he did, but didn’t want to be wrong.

                Sherlock led him into the room where they’d looked over their first dead body together. The room was empty other than a bright light clearly nicked from Scotland Yard and a chair with a folded up newspaper on it.

                John stepped forward uncertainly, eyes momentarily drawn to the faded scratches of ‘Rache’ on the floor. When he turned Sherlock was staring at him from across the room.

                “How the hell do you move so quietly?” John asked, exasperated. “And what’s going on?”

                Sherlock looked more nervous than John had ever seen him, eyes nearly glowing in the bright light. “John, will you let me ask you one question?”

                “Of course,” John said, his irritation fading. “What is it, love?”

                Sherlock chuckled. “That’s a very interesting question. What love is, I mean. Though that’s not what you meant, it’s rather in line with what I want to ask you.”

                Sherlock flexed his hands and stepped a bit closer to John. “I used to think that it was a chemical defect, one that proper training could overcome. All it did was make you weak, and that was hardly useful. So I decided I didn’t need it. Then you came along and proved me right—violently right, because work was no longer enough. I couldn’t sleep with you having nightmares, I forced myself to eat to stop the worry in your eyes, and I felt fear for the first time since childhood when you were threatened. And of course, I thought you didn’t feel anything for me, and I was wasting my time. In short, love made me a fool, a weak one.”         

                “Then I dreamed and found out you might love me, and I woke up to the best part of my life. I had to be proven wrong to get there, of course, but that didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore except you and I, and our life in love, being together in everything.” Sherlock met John’s eyes for one brief, intense instant, then looked away. “And ever since then I’ve been trying to figure out how to best show you how grateful I am to you for proving me wrong, for showing me that your love was everything that made me want to live.”

                John blinked hard, trying in vain to swallow the lump in his throat.

                “Then it came to me,” Sherlock whispered. “You’ve said before that you don’t want to be alone again. I can promise you that you will never be alone as long as I am alive, because if there is anything more pleasant than being loved by you it is being able to love you back.”

                John watched through blurred eyes as Sherlock sank to one knee.          

“So I thought I would give you something tangible, something you can always see even when we’re apart.” Sherlock’s voice broke. “And I swear, John, those moments will be few and far between. I want to spend the rest of my life by your side, whatever we are doing. Will you marry me, John Watson?”

                John stumbled forward, dropping to his knees and cradling Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Yes,” he whispered. He was shaking so badly he could hardly speak. “Yes, yes…I don’t know what else to say—”

                “That’s sufficient,” Sherlock managed before he started giggling, and then John started laughing with him and crying at the same time, and they kissed between giggles, holding onto each other as tightly as they could.

                Sherlock pulled  away abruptly, fumbling in his coat pocket. He pulled out a small black box and held it out to John, who took it with shaking hands.

                It was a simple ring, a gold band with a small diamond set into the ring so it wouldn’t catch on anything. John thought it was beautiful.

                He held out his left hand to Sherlock. “Put it on, will you?”

                Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock took the ring and carefully slipped it on to John’s third finger. He raised John’s hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. “We’re engaged,” he said, voice trembling.

                “So we are,” John said. He gave Sherlock his free hand and they stood up together. “Shall we go to Canada, then?”

                Sherlock smirked. “Why don’t we get married here? It’s a lot of bother, going to Canada.”

                John frowned. “Do you mean a civil partnership?”

                Sherlock pulled John over to the chair. He picked up the newspaper and unfolded it deftly. _First Day of Same Sex Weddings,_ the headline read.

                John could tell it was a fake newspaper, pulled together from examples of several different articles. He still ran his fingers over the words, trying to understand. “The vote…then…”

                “It went through,” Sherlock said. “It’s legal now, John. We can get married here, if you like. Unless you want to go elsewhere—”

                John threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “You great prat, of course we’re getting married here. London’s our home.”

                Sherlock buried his face in John’s shoulder and held him close. “I thought so too,” he said in a muffled voice.

* * *

 

                It took a long time to get to Angelo’s by foot, but they managed it before close. Angelo smiled when he came up to them. “Table for two, boys?”

                “Of course. By the window, if we could?” John asked.

                Angelo directed them to ‘their’ table, which was always free any time they went to Angelo’s. John suspected Sherlock of making a standing reservation.

                They sat down and Angelo handed them their menus before going off to fetch their usual candle.

                “Angelo?” John called.

                Angelo turned.

                John raised his left hand, showing his ring. “You might want to make it two candles.”

                Absolutely no one paid for their meals that night at Angelo’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have the first part of John and Sherlock's wedding! It's a day early to mark the 2 year anniversary of the first gay marriages in the UK. I'll update every other day for the next three chapters since they're all connected. Cheers, and happy reading!


	5. An Important Choice (pt.2 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's got a favour to ask of Greg, and Sherlock's got one to ask of his brother.

               Greg looked across his desk in disbelief. “You two are getting married?”

                John raised an eyebrow. “Of course we are.”

                Right. Of course.

                It had only been forty-eight hours since gay marriage was made legal in the UK, and (surprise, surprise) the world had not yet come to an end. Greg was pleased, of course, but it didn’t really impact his life. Or so he had thought.

                “I didn’t think Sherlock was the marriage type,” he admitted.

                John shrugged. “He wants to get married, I didn’t ask why.” He looked to the side, a faint blush in his cheeks. “I wasn’t the one asking the questions, anyways.”

                “Well obviously, I saw the ring. Nice, by the way.”

                John grinned, looking like a bashful teenager. How he managed that after years of the army and Sherlock, Greg would never know.

                “Congratulations,” he finally remembered to say. “I’m glad for both of you.”

                “Thanks, mate.” John was still smiling, although he suddenly looked a trifle nervous.

                “Is it going to be a big wedding?”

                “No,” John said firmly. Greg wasn’t surprised. “Sherlock said I could have what I wanted—I’m fairly certain he’d be willing to rent Buckingham Palace—but I just want something small.”

                “When you say small—”

                “I mean under ten guests, even if everyone comes.”

                Greg whistled. “Blimey, that’s a real small wedding. My sister had a ‘small’ wedding that was over a hundred.” A thought occurred. “Are you going to have attendants?”

                John definitely looked nervous now. “Maybe, if…who we want say yes.”

                Greg wasn’t stupid, though he was surprised. “You want me to be your best man?”

                “Yes, I do.” John was serious. “You’re my best friend, Greg—well, after Sherlock, but I can’t very well have my husband as my best man.” He started. Clearly hadn’t said the word yet, Greg thought fondly.

                “I’d be proud to do it,” Greg said. He reached out and clapped John on the shoulder. “You are my best friend, though for God’s sake don’t tell your future husband. Not that I’ll be able to hide it from him, the berk.”

                John smiled. “I don’t think he really minds.”

                “Who’s he asking?”

                “Mycroft.”

                Greg didn’t say anything for a minute.

                “Please tell me you have footage.”

                John smirked. “I will.”

                Greg shook his head. “You two were made for each other, you know that?”

                “Feels like it.” John cleared his throat. “So since it’s a small wedding, there won’t be much for you to do—we’ve got a place picked out, Mrs. Hudson is insisting on cooking…”

                “And Mycroft and I will handle the rest,” Greg finished. He stood up. “Don’t worry, John. We’ll give you a good wedding. God knows you deserve one.”

                John looked strange for a minute. Greg had seen that look a few times since he and Sherlock got together, like the man was stepping back for a moment, looking at how amazing his life was…like he'd almost missed his chance.

                “You alright, John?”

                “Fine.”  John made to go, then stopped. His shoulders were suddenly tense. “Actually, there is one thing you could help me with. For the wedding, I mean.”

                “Need a good tailor?” Greg joked.

                “I need  a good song.”

                Greg stared at him. “What do you mean?”

                John shuffled. “I mean, the music for the party—if we have one at all, if Mycroft has his way it’ll just be the ceremony—”

                “Don’t be so sure about that,” Greg said wryly, remembering Mycroft’s enthusiasm at planning even the most dull political gathering.

                “Well, then…we still need a first dance song. I want to have one, at least. Sherlock loves dancing…” John looked dreamy for a minute. “I want it to be perfect but I have no idea how to go about choosing one.”

                “And you think I’ll know better?”

                “You know more about music than I do!”             

                It was sort of true—he’d done a minor in music years ago in uni—but that was beside the point. “You know _him_ better than I do.”

                “I know, but I want it to be…I want to make his day. You know us both, you know music, you can pick something.”

                Greg thought about it. “I suppose…you haven’t any ideas at all?”

                John turned pink. His lips moved for a moment, then he bent over Greg’s desk, scribbling on the corner of a notepad. He pushed it over, lips pressed tightly together.

                Greg read the title and looked up, shocked.

                “That’s why I can’t pick the song,” John said seriously. “That’s the best I can think of and he’ll—he’ll think it’s a joke. Please, Greg?”

                “Alright,” Greg replied. “Don’t fuss, John, I’ll figure out a good one.”

                John beamed. “Thanks, mate.” He  shook Greg’s hand and left.

                Greg went back to work, absent-mindedly flipping the file with John’s suggestion over.

                He’d sorted out three Sherlock-cases (the man had the most irritating handwriting ever, not to mention little tact when writing statements) when his phone rang.

                “DI Lestrade.”

                “Hello Gregory.”

                Greg sat bolt upright. “Mycroft?”

                “Can’t you tell us apart yet?”

                “Yeah, Sherlock doesn’t know my first name.” Greg relaxed. “What can I do for you, Mycroft?”

                “We need to confer about Sherlock and John’s wedding song.”

                Greg whistled. “You said yes.”

                “How did you—ah, Dr. Watson. I suppose you’ve agreed as well?”

                “Of course, although I am a bit surprised he didn’t pick Mike.”

                “Dr. Stamford is officiating, according to Sherlock.”

                Greg laughed. “Of course he is. This is going to be brilliant.” He paused. “Congratulations, by the way.”

                “What?”

                “Come off it. Sherlock would have proposed to John years ago, never mind if their marriage was legal. That would have been more fun for him. But it would have bothered John, and he knew it. So he could have been persuaded to wait…especially if a certain high-up in the government told him it was being worked on.”

                Greg waited,  grinning at the lack of response.

                “You’re becoming sharper with age, Gregory.”

                “You don’t get made Detective Inspector for nothing, Mycroft.”

                “Of course not. Now, to business. The vast majority of the wedding details are simple or have been taken care of already. I believe a month should be sufficient?”

                “That soon?” Greg took a quick look at his calendar. “Barring a second Jack the Ripper, we should be fine. We should ask them about a specific date.”

                “Agreed. The only matter of any difficulty is the first dance. Sherlock insisted upon that tradition, but he seems rather stuck.”

                “John was too,” Greg replied. “He had one idea, but he’s convinced it won’t be any good.”

                “Sherlock had a similar issue.” Mycroft sighed. “I tried to persuade Sherlock to simply compose a waltz of some kind, but he’s having creative block.”

                “He told you that?”

                “Not in so many words.”

                “You two are…never mind. What was Sherlock’s idea?” Greg listened for a moment, then laughed. “Oh those hopeless romantics…”

                Mycroft groaned. “You can’t be serious.”

                “Oh, yes I am.”

                “WHY DO THEY EVER DOUBT THEMSELVES?”

                Greg jerked the phone away from his ear and stared at it. “Mycroft?”

                “…Apologies.”

                Greg chuckled. “None needed, though I might be deaf in one ear. So here’s what I think we should do…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is the mystery song? Will the wedding go well? Tune in next time for the answer to one of those questions, and the time after for the other! (I swear it makes sense). Cheers!  
> (Also matchmaker Mycroft pleases me deeply)


	6. Their Last Vow (pt.3 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big day, and some important words.

            The happiest of days often defy description—it’s hard to find words that aren’t cliché or overused, especially about something as common yet rare as a happy wedding day.

            Suffice it to say that Sherlock and John stood with their families in late April on a sunny day. The best men were present, having put in long hours with the grooms to make sure that all four of them could take the day off without London (or the world) exploding. Mrs. Hudson was there, beaming brightly in her role as mother of the groom. Mike was officiating and had been there since dawn practicing with Molly’s help. The good wishes of those who couldn’t be with them were also there in recorded video messages from New Scotland Yard, Afghanistan and a small cottage near the east coast, where two very grumpy people were too ill to attend their son’s wedding—a recording was set up for their benefit.

            Russell Square Gardens was not an ordinary place for weddings, but John insisted— “one of the most important conversations I’ve ever had happened here,” and Mike agreed, very glad that he'd taken a walk on his lunch that January day—and when you’re marrying the British Government’s little brother, rules can be bent with the greatest of ease.

            They had the rings, the reception was ready, and it was exactly 3 PM, the time they met.

            All that was left was to say their vows, hands joined together.

            Sherlock went first.

            “John, I’m afraid you’ve made the wrong decision. From the moment I met you I realized that I was doomed; doomed to be proven wrong again and again by a man I was utterly unworthy of knowing. You are brave and wise and kind, and by some miracle you are strong enough to cover the weaknesses I’ve always despised in those qualities—I was wrong in thinking that I would never respect you. You are short-tempered and short and you make wonderful tea—I was wrong in thinking that I would never need you. I learned to love you, and I thought that I could never earn your love—and you love me anyways. So while I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion, I am also hoping desperately to prove myself wrong this time. I’ve never made a vow before, and after today I never will again, so this is my first and last vow: I swear to never let you down, John, and to do everything to be the man that you believe me to be for the rest of our days together.”

            It took a moment for the other groom to compose himself enough to avoid both crying and kissing his fiancé before they were officially husbands. Once that moment passed, John replied:

            “Sherlock, I’ve thought long and hard about what I wanted to say to you, because all you said was ‘could be dangerous’…and here I am. Here we are. I want to tell you that I'll wake up every morning with you and solve crimes and watch bad telly and hold hands at crime scenes, and I know that I want to give you everything you want from me, but…dear, I mean so much more than that. I suppose the best thing I can tell you now is that I was so alone, and now I’m not, and I am so grateful that we are together. And I swear that I will tell you that every day of our lives in as many ways as I can think of, and show you when I can’t tell you anymore, because I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I always will.”

            It was Sherlock’s turn to blink hard and press his lips together. Sensing that delay would be pointless, Greg and Mycroft handed over the rings, watching in silence as the grooms used shaking hands to slip jewelry that would be kept spotless in the years to come onto their partner’s hand.

            Mike cleared his throat. “I now pronounce you husbands.” He grinned as he paused for another moment; John glared at him indignantly. “Alright, you can snog if you want.”

            “I do,” Sherlock and John said in unison, and they ignored the laughter around them as they kissed for the first time as the ‘married ones’ of 221b.

           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the reception, the best man speech and the dance. Cheers, Acme.


	7. The Dance (pt.4 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reception, the speech and the song.

                Sherlock still couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

                He didn’t speak much through the wedding reception, preferring to listen to his husband ( _husband_ , what a marvellous word) chat with their family and friends. He ate slowly and methodically, watching his hands as he used his knife and fork. More specifically, he watched his left hand.

                And looked at his wedding ring.

                Proposing to John had been wonderful, and his partner’s acceptance had meant everything, but Sherlock had felt an uneasy pang every time he saw John’s ring. It fit well, it looked right, it suited John beautifully…but it was only half of the equation. It was proof that Sherlock wanted to marry John. It wasn’t quite proof that John wanted to marry Sherlock.

                Now he had a gold band of his own, a thin band of platinum running through it and an inscription in Elvish John swore meant ‘My Good in the World’ but Sherlock didn’t want to check because that would mean taking it off. And it was _lovely_ , and John had one that matched  and it was…visually pleasing, the symmetry, and he was _not_ getting sentimental.

                Well…maybe he was. But only about John.

                Mycroft was sitting on his right, eating quietly and looking around, much like him. Sherlock was curious as to why his brother was so calm—his social anxiety usually caused him to bow out of events like this—but he didn’t question it. Mycroft was content, and that was enough for him.

                When everyone had finished cake (even Mycroft had a piece—both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade insisted) Lestrade got to his feet and tapped his glass. It wasn’t really necessary; there were only ten people in the hall, but it did get everyone’s attention.

                “Hello everyone,” Lestrade said cheerfully. “I know it’s tradition for the best man speech to go before tea, but it’s also tradition to have only one best man and several more boring people here, so I reckoned we could do away with that.”

                Lestrade shuffled as the guests chuckled. He was nervous, Sherlock could tell. He hadn’t really wanted to make the speech, but it was him or Mycroft, and Lestrade knew that Mycroft couldn’t do public speaking, not like this.

                “I’m going to give a very quick speech, as the most important points have been covered by the newlyweds.” Lestrade grinned at John and Sherlock before continuing. “I just want to say something from the perspective of someone who was there nearly at the beginning of their story.”

                “It was the 'Study in Pink' case, and Sherlock came banging in to give us the answer, except he had someone in tow. A rather short, grouchy looking stranger with a cane.” (He tipped a wink at John).  I asked Sherlock who he was. The response I got was ‘he’s with me.’”

                Sherlock remembered that night very well. He wanted to impress John, to show him that he was important enough that the police wouldn’t question him bringing anyone into a crime scene.

                “And really,” Lestrade continued. “That was all I needed to know. Of course, you have both changed since then. John’s not so grouchy anymore, has lost the cane and is no longer a stranger—though you are still quite short mate, no offense.” (John shook his fist at Lestrade but he was smiling). “And Sherlock’s gone from some imperious, insane know-it-all to one of my best friends, who happens to be an imperious, insane know-it-all.”

                Sherlock shrugged as the others laughed.

                “Seriously, though…” Lestrade paused for a minute, trying to gather himself. “You’ve both become so important in my life, both professionally and personally, and I don’t say this enough but I do enjoy every minute of the madness…and I’m so glad to see two good and great men get a chance to be happy together, because it’s been clear for a long time—and maybe clearer to everyone else than to you—that what you’ve always wanted is to be with each other.”

                Sherlock felt John grip his hand tight, and he clutched back, fingers suddenly trembling. Everyone looked rather misty; even Mycroft had a handkerchief moved within easy reach.

                Lestrade gave them a watery smile. “You both know that now; you’ve promised that today, and I know you’ve promised it for life. So let’s raise our glasses to the newlyweds, and let them have their first dance as husbands.”

                Everyone stood and cheered them, and John stood and gave Lestrade a tight hug. Then he stepped away— _he knows me so well,_ Sherlock thought—and let Sherlock hug him too.

                “Thank you, Greg,” Sherlock whispered.

                Lestrade pulled away in shock, but Sherlock simply patted his shoulder and joined John a few feet from the round tea table. There was a speaker on a table near the wall, and Lestrade, after wiping his eyes, walked over and pressed a few buttons on the iPod.

                “We’ve got a playlist for the rest of the night that Myc and Molly and I sorted out, but interestingly enough the first dance was chosen by both John and Sherlock.” Lestrade grinned at Sherlock’s shock. “You two should have known better.” He hit play.

                Sherlock looked at John, who was smiling shyly. “We really chose the same song?”

                As the first chords began to play, Sherlock smiled and took his husband ( ** _his_** _husband)_ in his arms. “We did indeed.”

                They waltzed slowly, ignoring everyone else, the sunset light just enough to see each other.

                “I love you, Sherlock.” John’s voice was muffled against his shoulder.

                Sherlock held him tightly. Leaning down, he sang along.

                _I don’t know much…but I know I love you. And that may be, all there is to know._

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WmuJ0us63GQ  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are many songs that fit Johnlock, but this one is mine (that I like). Next installment we'll be heading back to Victorian times; it will hopefully be up Wednesday but might be delayed to Thursday (if so I apologize in advance). For you canon buffs, this story follows an adventure to do with threes...  
> Cheers, Acme


	8. The Worth Of A Wound (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 'Adventure of the Three Garridebs', Holmes and Watson return to Baker Street. Watson thinks he's fine. Holmes knows that he's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick summary for those who haven’t read this story [Adventure of the Three Garridebs]: a case of a very convoluted imposter leads Holmes and Watson to the basement of an old house, where the imposter, ‘Killer Evans’ is trying to hide his counterfeiting press (not much real about this guy). Holmes confronts him, and Evans appears to agree, only to shoot Watson twice in the leg. Watson’s not badly wounded, so he’s lucid enough to think this as Holmes bends over him frantically:  
> “It was worth a wound; it was worth many wounds; to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.”  
> …seriously go read the story and come back it’s utterly incredible and it’s one of the most stunning moments of real emotion in all the ACD canon. Which makes it excellent fodder for a romantic moment. :) Now, on with the show!  
> For a time stamp this is roughly two years after the Dream.

 

            “Watson, we should go to see a doctor.”

            “I am a doctor,” Watson gasped as he sank onto his bed, hand pressed to the wound. “And I am fine, Holmes, stop fussing about.”

            Holmes’ brow was furrowed, eyes still full of anxiety.

            Mrs. Hudson caused a diversion by coming in with a basin of steaming water. “Are you alright, Doctor?” she asked.

            Holmes took the basin from her and set it on the night stand. Removing his waistcoat, he tore at his shirt until he had a long bandage. Ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s squawk, Holmes wet the bandage and approached the bed.

            Watson rolled his eyes. “My dear Holmes, I’m perfectly—OUCH!” He jerked away as Holmes placed the _still scalding hot_ bandage over his leg.

             Holmes took the bandage away as if Watson had burned him. “I thought I should sanitize it,” he explained, his shaking lips betraying his worry.

             Watson nearly reached out to take Holmes’ hand before he stopped himself. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said as gallantly as he could, “thank you for your assistance, but I believe that Holmes and I can manage from now on. I simply need rest.”

             Mrs. Hudson looked at him sharply. “Will you be going upstairs then, Doctor?”

             Upstairs? Watson looked around. The room was incredibly messy, clothes askew everywhere and piles of commonplace books teetered on every table.

             Ah. They hadn’t made it up two flights of stairs. Interesting. How had he missed that?

             “The good doctor may use my bed for the night, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said. “Should I need to sleep, I’ll use the sofa.”

             Mrs. Hudson nodded and left the room. Watson counted her steps in a haze. He didn’t quite hear her door close, but Holmes must have, because he sprang forward and grabbed Watson in a tight embrace, leaning carefully to keep from putting pressure on his wounded leg.

             Watson closed his eyes and leaned against Holmes. They hadn’t been alone since it happened; first Evans, then Gregson, then Mrs. Hudson, and Holmes had been trembling with the effort not to reach out to him for hours.

             “John…”

             Watson raised a hand and patted Holmes’ shoulder. “Sherlock, it’s alright. I promise, I will be quite alright.”

             “I thought—” the detective choked back a sob convulsively.

            “It’s alright, dear,” Watson whispered. “It’s alright, I swear.”

            Holmes pulled back abruptly. “I apologize. You are the one who’s been injured.”

            “Yes, but I am not the one who was afraid,” Watson replied.

            Holmes shrugged off his own hurt and fear and held up the bandage. “Will you show me how to do it properly?”

            Knowing a task, however mundane, could keep Holmes grounded, Watson patiently talked the detective through the bandaging of the wound. It had been hastily bandaged at the Yard, but Watson hadn’t quite trusted the police doctor. Either way he knew that Holmes would have insisted on redoing it.

            When it was done Watson leaned back, Holmes automatically plumping up the pillow. “Thank you, Holmes.” He thought of something. “You can go upstairs if you like,” he whispered as he closed his eyes, weariness making itself known at last, the pain beginning to fade. “I know the sofa hurts your back.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” he heard Holmes say. “I’ve got a much better idea.”

            Watson didn’t have time to ask before he felt Holmes lie down beside him, drawing the blankets up.

            “Holmes!”

            “I will hear Mrs. Hudson if she comes, and quite frankly I don’t care what she thinks.” Holmes’ voice was tense, but Watson could feel his arm trembling. “I can invent some reason—it’s a cold night and you need watching—”

            Watson reached over and took Holmes’ hand under the blankets. “I’m glad you’re staying,” he murmured. “Goodnight, my dear Sherlock.”

            Holmes relaxed, gripping Watson’s hand warmly. “Goodnight, my dear John,” he whispered back. “I am very glad you’re not hurt.”

            They were breaking many rules tonight; what was one more? “I love you,” Watson whispered. He could have sworn he heard an echo just before he fell asleep.


	9. Mary's Wedding (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter we'll see the lovely Miss Mary Morstan in modern times...as I thought they might introduce her.

               When Mary Morstan was four, she was always afraid. Mummy was kind, but she was often working at the hospital or busy at home, trying to keep her husband’s home clean. Father, on the other hand, was always home, but Mary didn’t like being around him, because he drank so much and was still always thirsty. As long as he had drinks within reach, he didn’t pay attention to her. She was supposed to be a boy, after all. When he didn’t have drinks within reach, he would go on a rampage, looking for bottles that weren’t there, punishing Mary and her mother for them being gone. Mary got good at hiding.

                When Mary Morstan was six,  Father fell down the stairs. If there was anything suspicious at all about his death, none of the neighbours said a word. Mummy had to talk to some policemen, but they said that no one was in trouble. It might be best, one of the lady police added, to move somewhere else, where there were flowers and nice people. They moved the next day, and Mary was much happier, because she didn’t have to be afraid anymore, and Mummy was home more, and the two of them planted a garden.

                When Mary Morstan was eight, a kind man brought Mummy some flowers one evening. Mary was afraid at first, but she soon realized that this man was nothing like Father. Father never brought flowers, and he never smiled. The man’s name was Jacob, and he and Mummy laughed together a lot and took Mary on walks in the park and even to films a few times.

                When Mary Morstan was nine, Jacob moved into their house. He built Mary a beautiful doll house and painted her pictures. He gave her a new name, with Mummy’s permission. “Mary’s a grown-up girl’s name,” he said with a chuckle. “Why don’t you be Molly while you’re little?”

                When Molly Morstan was ten, Jacob asked her if she wouldn’t mind having another new name. “If your Mummy agrees, I want to share my name with both of you,” he said. Molly agreed, as long as she could call him Dad. They shook hands, and once they’d talked to Mummy and bought her a pretty white dress with sparkles she and Molly became Hoopers.

                When Molly Hooper was eighteen, she waved goodbye to Mum and Dad and went to university. She thought about being a doctor, but talking with live people made her nervous, even though Dad promised her that lots of people were kind and good. She had one good teacher who talked about working in a morgue, and that was it—in just a few years she started at St. Bart’s, her Dad’s alma mater. Mum and Dad were so proud, and Dad was quite excited that she was working with Mike Stamford, his friend’s son, who was a dear if not terribly interesting. Molly wanted someone exciting and romantic, not knowing that her Mum had that exact same plan when she met Father.

                When Molly Hooper was twenty eight, her Dad was diagnosed, too late for any treatment to make a difference. Molly went home and looked after him with her Mum, arranging for the most beautiful flowers she could find for the funeral when it was over. She thought about changing her name back to Mary—after all, she must be grown-up enough now, but she hadn’t had the courage to ask Dad and after all, she was much more used to being Molly.

                When Molly Hooper was thirty, she met Sherlock Holmes, who was plenty exciting and not at all romantic. Still, that was half the equation, which seemed to satisfy her heart, and she helped him as much as she could, hoping that he would think she was good enough.

                When Molly Hooper was thirty-two, Sherlock Holmes met John Watson and Molly realized that she might lose Sherlock forever. She thought John was kind and good, of course, but not very interesting—goodness, Mike Stamford was more interesting. Part of her wanted to interfere between the two, but that would be mean, and she did love Sherlock enough to want him to be happy. Then she went on a date, then two, then three with Jim Moriarty, and learned that liking a psychopath was altogether too easy, and not at all a good idea.

                When Molly Hooper was thirty-three, she heard that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were together at last. There was a queer ache in her chest that morning—something seemed to have gone wrong—but when she saw them together she realized that she’d very quietly gotten over Sherlock Holmes. Mike was ecstatic about ‘Johnlock’, and when he offered to take her to dinner to celebrate she accepted.

                When Molly Hooper was thirty four she realized that, after all, Mike Stamford was actually very interesting and plenty romantic, and she’d fallen in love without noticing.

                When Molly Hooper was thirty-five she and Mike bought a tiny house together. It was in a quiet neighbourhood and they had flowers in the garden and plenty of room to hang up her Dad’s paintings. There was even room in their dining room to dance as long as they pushed the chairs out of the way.

                When Molly Hooper was thirty-six she stared at her wedding invitations and wrote _Mike David Stamford and Molly Elizabeth Hooper_ ; after all, that’s all people ever called them. Her Mum came and beamed as Sherlock Holmes married them and John Watson toasted the lovely “Mr and Mrs. Dr. Hooper,” and Molly danced with her quietly in the shadows, sharing a quiet cry for the man who would have loved to be there.

                When Molly Hooper was thirty-eight she got the surprise of her life from Sherlock Holmes, who offered her congratulations. Eight months later John Watson delivered her twins at St. Bart’s during a hostage situation. Molly named her daughter Lily after Mike’s sister, and named her son Jacob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was genuinely my theory for 'Mary' during seasons 1 and 2, though I was a bit unsure how they would go about introducing a romance. Ah well, the way they've done it works better for the show, but for this wee universe Real Office Romance solves the problem, and everyone's happy.  
> Cheers, Acme


	10. Victoria Sails (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's got a case for Holmes and Watson. Or does he?  
> This is set two weeks after 'The Worth Of A Wound'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I hope I have made this as historically accurate as the internet (sans Bradshaw) allows me to be, and any liberties taken are entirely artistic (also we are in a world of dreamwalking gay detective-doctors, history may be rewritten a tad).

            The telegram came early that morning. Holmes had just finished a hasty breakfast when Mrs. Hudson laid it on the table. “It’s from your brother, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

            Curious, Holmes opened the telegram. “Come to Plymouth docks. Case for you. Wear your best.  Bring Dr. Watson.” It was signed Mycroft, which meant that his brother was anxious yet happy. Odd. 

            “What is it, Holmes?” Watson was half-asleep, coming down the stairs without limping for the first time in two weeks. Lovely.

            “Mycroft wants us to join him on a case.”

            “Interesting…”

            “In Plymouth.”

            “You’re joking.”

            “I am not.” Holmes held out the telegram and Watson examined it.

            “What on earth is happening?”

            “I’ve no idea. Look up the trains in Bradshaw, will you? Unless you don’t want to go,” Holmes added, suddenly concerned.

            Watson waved his hand and smiled. “Mycroft going so far as Plymouth? Such a case must be highly interesting, or at the least dangerous. I refuse to let you go alone whichever is the case.”

            Holmes shook his head fondly. “I’ll let Mrs. Hudson know.”

            Thankfully they caught the early train, but it was still nearly supper time when they reached Plymouth. Holmes led Watson down to the docks, growing more puzzled by the moment. There were no obvious signs of political unrest, and the summer crowds made the town far more crowded than Mycroft liked. If his brother ever left London, he tended to retire to their old family home in the country. What on earth would possess him to come here, especially if he could simply send him and Watson?

            _Can’t make bricks without clay, Holmes._

Holmes spotted his brother the moment they reached the docks—a person of Mycroft’s stature tended to draw attention. Here, in a suit far better suited to Parliament than holiday making, he stuck out even more so than usual.

            Mycroft smiled when he saw them. “Good afternoon Dr. Watson, Sherlock. Fine day, is it not?”

            “Very,” Holmes agreed, still looking about for signs of trouble.

             Mycroft shook his head nearly imperceptibly. “Why don’t you two get settled aboard? We’re nearly ready to cast off.”

             Holmes looked up in surprise. A small clipper ship floated just beyond them, her name proudly emblazoned on the side, _Victoria._

            “Mycroft, is this your ship?” Watson asked with no small amount of confusion.

             Mycroft nodded, pleased. “I don’t sail her often, but every now and then I enjoy the sea.”

            Holmes stiffened. Something was wrong. It was entirely possible that Mycroft owned a ship, but clippers were more often used for trade than pleasure. Where were they going?

            “Mycroft—”

            “Sherlock.” His brother’s voice was mild but firm. “You and your friend should go aboard.”

            _Don’t question me, little brother._

            Holmes got the message. “Come along, Watson,” he called.

* * *

 

             “Apologies for keeping you waiting so long, gentlemen.”

              Holmes glanced up. He and Watson had spent the last two hours exploring the ship and then attempting to find their bags, which had mysteriously disappeared from where they’d left them. A deckhand had finally told them that their belongings were safe but they weren’t to disturb the several locked rooms. It was enormously frustrating, and if Mycroft had not been aboard the ship Holmes would have taken Watson and escaped via on of the lifeboats.

              Now Mycroft was heading towards them, looking immensely satisfied.

             “Brother, what is going on?” Holmes snapped. “What is this case?”

              Watson shot a glance at him, but Holmes was tired of waiting. “Why all the secrecy?”

              Mycroft didn’t seem offended. “I couldn’t tell you until now because we hadn’t reached our destination.”

             Holmes looked about, but he couldn’t see any sign of land, nor even another ship. “Which is where, exactly?”  
           

             “International waters,” Mycroft said calmly.

             Watson raised his eyebrows. “And why is that necessary? Are we condoning a felony tonight?”

             “Oh I expect more than one, if the two of you are amenable.” Mycroft’s eyes were twinkling. “You see, I wish to perform a marriage this evening.”

             “And who are the lucky couple?” Holmes yawned, relieved. “Jack the Ripper and Amelia Sach?”

              Mycroft merely stared at him until Holmes grew nervous.

              Watson drew in a deep breath beside him. “Mycroft, you cannot possibly be serious. We can’t—”

              Then Holmes understood.

              “Are you insane, brother? We can’t—there’s no—”

              “Both of you stop.” Mycroft’s gray eyes were steel. “We are far from judging eyes and laws. You are safe here, and why not take advantage of that?”

              “A marriage between men will never be recognized!” Holmes spat. Then he remembered a pale man in the mist asserting the exact opposite. 

              “It will someday,” Watson said. He shared a look with Holmes, eyes raised, clearly thinking of the same night. “But Holmes is right, Mycroft, what is the point?”

              “The point is for the two of you to have things that others in love may have!” Mycroft cried exasperatedly. “Perhaps only those of us onboard may know of it, but you will be bound together. I know that you both wish it, why not have it?”

              Holmes opened his mouth, then let it close as he considered Watson. John. His John. He’d always hated the idea of marriage, but now that he had John…he’d thought more than once if he could place a ring on John’s finger he would, if only to show the world that he loved this man.

             Watson was looking determinedly at the ground.

            “John,” Holmes asked softly. “Do you want this?”  
            “Do you?” Watson asked, looking up.

           “I don’t know if I’ll be a very good husband,” Holmes admitted as he reached out for his lover’s hand. “But if you’ll give me the chance I’d be grateful.”

            Watson took his hand in his, stroking the long fingers tenderly. “I…yes,  I think that would be lovely. I will be your husband, and I don’t care if only we know it.”

            Mycroft nodded. “Then we’d better get in place, though that shouldn’t take long.”

            Fear seized Holmes as the deckhand came up to them. Could this man be trusted? Then a wig was removed, a mask slipped to the side and Stanley Hopkins stood there grinning. “Good evening Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” he said happily.

            Holmes stared at him, stunned and Watson laughed. “I would never have known it!” he said, shaking his head. He glanced up into the sails. “I see you now though, Wiggins! Who’s that with you?”

            “Ross and Emma Lee,” Wiggins called back from his lofty perch. “Congratulations, Doctor!”

            Holmes threw his hands up. “Who else is here?”

            “Just two more, I think,” Mycroft replied, eyes twinkling in the fading light. Footsteps—Holmes groaned as he recognized the treads—announced the arrival of the final two wedding guests, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.

            Watson was laughing as he stood, taking Holmes’ hand casually as they crossed the deck. “So you knew all along?”

            “We’ve been planning for months,” Mrs. Hudson replied. She had her best dress on, and she looked ten years younger with her face wreathed in smiles. “I’m so pleased for you both, truly.”

            Holmes considered Lestrade, who looked steadily back. “And you, Inspector?”

            Lestrade shrugged. “I’ve known for years, Mr. Holmes. Besides, someone had to keep an eye on Hopkins.”

            Hopkins looked like he wanted to protest, but kept his mouth shut.

            “Shall we begin?” Mycroft asked a little impatiently.

            Holmes looked at Watson, a little non-plussed.

            “Oh for Heaven’s sake, come here!” Watson dragged Holmes to stand by the mast. “Will this do, Mycroft?” he asked.

            Mycroft strode over, the others following. “That should do nicely, John. Now we’ll have to make this quick, because I have a notion that my sailors want to see the whole thing.”

            “Damn right we do!” Wiggins called from the sails.

            “Get down then, so we can begin!”

            Three pairs of feet hit the deck almost instantaneously.

            Mycroft drew a small box from his pocket. “I know I didn’t give either of you much time for thought, but I also don’t know if the traditional vows quite work for this occasion.” Opening the box, he drew out two identical gold rings. He handed one to each of them.

            Holmes stared at John, a lump coming into his throat. How could he put what he felt for this man into words? Even if he’d had a hundred years, he would never be able to say it exactly.

            Then John smiled and Holmes knew exactly what he should say.

            “John, I love you. I vow to stand by your side forever, no matter what challenges we face. I vow to cheer you in sad times, to comfort you in hard times and to rejoice with you in the good. I give you my heart, such as it is.” He slid the ring onto John’s waiting, trembling finger.

            John cleared his throat. “Sherlock, I can offer you only my promise to be your partner in all our life together, whether we are hunting criminals or cleaning the bookcases. I love you…more than words can say.” He put Holmes’ ring on, voice thick with tears.

            Mycroft raised his hands. “As the captain of this vessel the _Victoria_ , I hereby pronounced these men married. Any who object are getting thrown overboard immediately.”

            Holmes didn’t wait to hear the amused chuckles. He drew John close and kissed him tenderly.

            Their rings would have to be hung on chains, there would be no photographs of the wedding supper (which was a shame, Mrs. Hudson dancing was a sight to see) and their only honeymoon would take place on the overnight trip back to London in a locked room with one double bed. Only seven other people would ever know what had happened that night. It would always feel like a dream.

            But it didn’t matter, Holmes realized, and he could tell John knew it too. They were married now because they loved each other and they had a family who loved them enough to make a special effort to see them together. That was more than enough proof that it had happened.

            And after all, dreams had always been good to them.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! Look...I really wanted this, okay? Mostly because I wanted to make Victorian!Mycroft a literal shipper. I hope you enjoyed it. I'm going to be away next week, so posting might be a bit late, but I will do my best to get a chapter up. Worst case scenario, you get two chapters on the 4th.  
> Cheers, Acme


	11. Midsummer Night (Crossover)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes suggests a walk in the park...at two in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Arvi, apologies for this taking so long, but by necessity it had to follow the Victorian wedding and that chapter was being annoying, I hope you like it!

 

It was a summer night in 1903, the sky deeply black and sprinkled with stars, when Watson was shaken awake by Holmes.

  
“What’s happening? A fire?”

  
“Come for a walk with me, John.” The candlelight danced in Holmes’ eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly two.”

“You want to go for a walk in the middle of the night,” Watson said slowly. “Where?”

“I thought Regents Park,” Holmes said, undeterred by Watson’s grumpy tone. “Do come, London’s lovely by night.”

 

“Aren’t you concerned about the types that usually wander the night?”

Holmes brushed Watson’s words away. “Come along, get dressed and be quiet about it,” he said. “We mustn’t wake Mrs. Hudson.”

“What, there are people who wish to be asleep at this hour?” Watson queried, reaching for his trousers. “Imagine that.”

Nevertheless, once they had reached the park, Watson did have to admit that there was a strange beauty in the darkness shrouding the park. Utterly alone, he and Holmes walked slowly through the park, in no particular rush. Watson felt no fear, and though he could hardly see Holmes, even in the occasional burst of lamplight, he could feel his husband walking next to him. On impulse, he reached out and took Holmes’ hand in his. He felt Holmes’ hand tense, but he didn’t pull away. As they continued walking, he intertwined his fingers with Watson’s.

Watson wasn’t sure how long they’d been walking when he noticed a slight blurring in the air. The next lamp confirmed it; fog was descending. Dressed as they were, it wouldn’t take long for the night to become unbearably damp. It was a shame; they’d never be able to walk like this during the day.

To his surprise the night stayed balmy even as the fog surrounded them. Holmes stepped closer to Watson, and they both stopped. The night was quiet, their breathing the only sound.

“This is odd, Sherlock,” Watson said quietly.

“I agree, but perhaps it would be better to keep moving,” Holmes replied. He drew Watson close and they proceeded, walking arm in arm instead of hand in hand.

The fog showed no sign of lifting, but the park lights were still shining brightly. In fact—Watson’s brows drew together—the lights seemed higher than usual, and they burned a strange colour, different from the low yellow he was accustomed to.

Watson’s nerves were now thoroughly upset, and he couldn’t restrain a quiet yelp of shock as two figures, a couple hand in hand, emerged from the fog. Their shapes were indistinct; all Watson could tell was that one was quite taller than the other. The light from the strange lamp did little to clear things up.

“Sorry we startled you,” the shorter (was it he who spoke?) said. “We’re not looking for any trouble."

The voice was familiar, but Watson couldn’t distinguish it, muffled by the fog as it was. A thought struck him. Could it be...?

“That would be unwise,” Holmes agreed, arm still interlocked with Watson’s. “We’re just exploring the park by night. Wandering urges, you see.”

“I understand,” the taller one (at least Watson thought it was the taller one) said. “We do the same whenever my insomnia coincides with my husband’s.”

Watson felt the blood drain from his face. He’d never heard this voice before, but by the way Holmes’ hand was suddenly tightly in his...he was right.

“I must admit I don’t often have trouble sleeping,” he said cautiously, “but a chance to spend time with my husband, away from the eyes of others...well, who am I to pass that up?”

The other two were still. It was impossible to tell what they were thinking with the swirling fog around. _The fog....no, mist, how could he not have seen it earlier?_

“Well,” the taller stranger said, and his voice sounded thick. “We’d better leave you to get on with it. We mustn’t waste your time.”

“On the contrary,” Watson bowed, hoping they could see. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Again,” he dared to add, hoping that was not against some hidden rule.

The strangers didn’t react, and Watson walked forward, bringing Holmes with them. The strangers advanced as well, but just before they passed each other the shorter stranger stopped and reached out. Watson stopped and watched breathlessly as the hand of a much younger man laid itself on Holmes’ free one, a wedding ring nearly glowing.

“Thank you,” he said, and Watson was sure, now.

“ _Thank you,”_ Holmes replied.

Watson stared at the tall stranger, and for a moment the fog cleared enough to see his face. Watson smiled at him, and the stranger—though not so strange, after all—smiled back.

The fog became even thicker, far too quickly to be natural, and Holmes drew Watson down the path. When they looked back a moment later, the fog was beginning to clear, the lamplight was normal and their strange meeting was over.

But it had been enough, more than enough, and Watson squeezed Holmes’ hand tightly.

* * *

 

John looked back but the misty figures were long gone. If he hadn’t touched one of them, briefly seen his face, he might have called it a dream.

He stared up at Sherlock, who was standing stock still in the middle of the path, arm absentmindedly around John’s shoulders.

“You alright, dear?”

Sherlock nodded. “They’re married.” That was all,

“They are,” John agreed, tucking himself closer to Sherlock. “God knows how they managed it.”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I,” John replied softly. He kissed Sherlock, hand sliding into his curls. “We should go home.”

By the time they returned to Baker Street, the fog was completely gone.

 


	12. Party At The Yard (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to a party thrown by Scotland Yard, and some misunderstandings are cleared up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's set about a month after Chapter One (A Matter of Family).

“Why are we here?”

“Well, several hundred years ago, our ancestors made the decision to procreate—”

“Sherlock, I will not hesitate to murder you in front of people.”

 “Even at the Yard? Doctor, you’re slipping.”

John glared at his partner, who smirked back.

On an ordinary Saturday night with no case to distract them, they would have gone back to Baker Street and used the time to watch bad telly, catch up on their blogs, etc. Now that they were a couple, they often included cuddles (which Sherlock called 'physical bonding ') or simple make-out sessions (Sherlock didn't have a name for those) to the mix.

But when were their lives ever ordinary?

This Saturday night was being spent at the Yard's spring party. Why was this party being held? John couldn't tell you. Greg had sent them a text, and they were going. That was all Sherlock would say.

It wasn't that John disliked the people at the Yard. Some, like Greg (and Dimmock somehow) were friends outside of the crime scenes and interview rooms. Others like Johnson and Bradstreet were acquaintances that he enjoyed talking to, although they didn't try to spend time together outside of work. There were a few rare birds like Donovan and Anderson who he actively disliked, but they were easy enough to avoid even in a small room like this.

It was just that...well, they'd been busy all week and John, if he'd had his own choice, would have rather stayed at home and had some 'physical bonding' in front of the telly with some takeaway. Why not?

But Sherlock had decided to be sociable, and really, Sherlock rarely asked for this kind of thing. Why not go along?

Sherlock looked at him sideways. "If you don't want to stay we can leave," he said seriously.

John shrugged. "If you want to stay that's fine. I just want to know if I'm going to have to make a hasty exit if my partner  gets caught snooping through old cold cases or something."

Sherlock chuckled. "I'm planning nothing of the sort." He put a wiry arm around John's waist, stooping a bit to do so. "I just thought it would be a change of venue from our usual rendezvous."

Sherlock hated calling their dates 'dates'; he'd do it if pressed, but 'rendezvous', 'outings' and 'time together' were his preferred terms. It was only after one too many glasses of wine at Angelo’s that he’d confessed that he thought those words sounded more ‘romantic’. John never let on that he knew.

John leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "You know you don't have to keep coming up with new places to...rendezvous, right? I'm perfectly happy with what we already do."

Sherlock didn't answer for a moment. "I know, John. But we rarely spend any time with your...friends, as a couple. I wanted to rectify that situation."

John couldn't help it--he barked out a laugh. "Have you been reading those magazines again?"

Sherlock's vehement shake of his head didn't fool him for a moment.

"Idiot," he said fondly. "Tell you what, as much as I love showing you off, if you don't really want to stay we can leave. We can go for drinks with Dimmock and Greg some other time, you know."

Sherlock shrugged. "That's not completely necessary."

"We'll do it, if you want," John said firmly. "Why don't we mingle for a while and then pretend we've got some write-ups to do? Then we can go home."

"Why don't we just leave right away?"

"That's rude, dear." John rolled his eyes fondly at Sherlock's distasteful expression. "Go on, talk to Greg, he looks a bit lonely. I'll go see if Bradstreet wants to talk about his daughter again."

Sherlock groaned. "He always wants to talk about that ridiculous baby."

"Well then I'll oblige him," John replied. "I'll see you soon, then?"

To his surprise Sherlock drew him close and kissed him. "Of course, my dear John," he said. "And then we'll go home."

There was something about the promise in his voice that made John shiver. He did his best not to show it, but by the amused look in Sherlock's eyes he hadn't succeeded.

Had Sherlock actually meant…well, what he seemed to have meant?

"Right," he said, "I'm going to look for Bradstreet."

John managed to—well, not quite forget, that would be nearly impossible, but he did put Sherlock's hint out of his mind as Bradstreet chatted enthusiastically about his daughter. Bradstreet was one of the few men John had ever met who'd campaigned successfully and enthusiastically for paternal leave. Now that his daughter Abby was six months old he was back at the Yard, but it was currently only part-time and there were rumours that he was planning to retire and go into something less dangerous.

Bradstreet confirmed this.

"I can't bear to think of missing her life," he confided to John over the punch bowl. He was holding a picture of the baby, with clouds of blonde hair and her father's huge green eyes. "I mean I get it, people balance jobs and kids, but Margie's job pays quite well, and I'm thinking if I stay home with her then we'll save on childcare, won't we?"

"If that's what you want to do, you should talk it over with Marge," John answered. He'd no children, of course, but he could understand the love in Bradstreet's eyes. "If she agrees...you're a brilliant policeman, Bradstreet, and it'd be a shame if you left, but this is about what's best for you and your family."

Bradstreet's eyes shone. "Thanks, John. And for goodness sake, Arthur is fine."

John shook his hand. "Best of luck to you and your family, Arthur, no matter what you decide."

He could tell from Arthur's relaxed stance as he walked away that he'd made his decision. Sometimes you just need a bit of a shove to do what you already know you want, John reflected, thinking of the help he'd gotten to go after Sherlock.

Thinking of his partner, he turned and nearly walked straight into Donovan.

"Sorry," he said, and tried to move past her.

Donovan stayed put.

"Excuse me," John said, and once more attempted to move around her. This time she deliberately blocked his path.

"Oi, what's the idea, Donovan? I'm trying to—"

"Where's your boyfriend?" Donovan asked. Her lips were twitching, like she could see the last hider in Hide-and-Seek but didn't want to give the game away just yet. "Shouldn't you be attached to his hip?"

John rolled his eyes and turned around.

"Better hurry back to him before he gets bored," Donovan called, just loud enough for John to hear over the music.

John turned to face her. "Excuse me?"

"Come off it." Donovan was smiling now, and there was a pity in her face that John decidedly didn't like. "How long have you two been together now, hm? Three months?"

"Three months on Tuesday," John said evenly. "What exactly does that have to do with you? Or anything?"

Donovan stepped closer. "That's quite long for the Freak's attention span."

John's hands curled into fists. "Shut up, Sergeant."

She shook her head. "I'm trying to help you, _Doctor_."

"Really? How is that?" Against his will (he was a grown man and could look after himself, thank you very much) John started looking around for Sherlock. He was standing near the far wall, talking to Greg. He wouldn’t be able to hear John from that distance without attracting attention.

"How much longer do you think he's going to let this go on?" Donovan challenged. "I'm sure you're a nice little distraction for now—I don't think he's ever managed to keep someone into his bed for this long—"

She stopped and raised her eyebrows at John’s cough. John cursed himself. How had he fallen for that?

"You two haven't—there's no way, you're both grown men!"

"This is none of your business," John hissed. No one was watching them, but he felt his face grow hot. Thank god for ridiculously loud music.

Donovan raised her eyebrows. "Well, you might last longer than I thought. Unless when he does take you to bed you disappoint him."

John said nothing. He had nothing to be ashamed of as far as his sexual prowess, although he was certainly more used to being with women than men. But there was still that worry, that concern that although the physical side of things had been progressing slowly and with great enjoyment on both their parts, that if they went all the way that Sherlock would find him wanting. Because what was he, really, almost four years older than his partner, scarred and...ordinary.

"So you already know," Donovan said. "Or at least you suspect." She moved closer. "John, why would he want to be with you for the long term? You're nothing like him—you can't keep up with him any more than we can. What can you possibly give him that will keep his attention? He's no Prince Charming now, that's clear as day. What's he going to be like when he realizes that you're boring?"

John couldn't help it. He flinched back a bit.

"Better to go now, don't you think?" Donovan asked soothingly. "He's cruellest to those who disappoint him. you've seen that. Don't let him find out those things on his own. Make some excuse. I can help you find a cheap flat if you like—"

"That is enough," Sherlock hissed.

John spun around to find Sherlock towering over him, glaring at Donovan, face twisted in a snarl.

"Don't you dare speak to him that way." While Donovan had kept her voice low, Sherlock raised his, drawing the attention of people nearby. John wanted dearly to look at his feet, but just then Sherlock shifted his gaze to him. The anger bled out of Sherlock's eyes, but the passion remained.

"Why are you letting her speak like this, John? You're wasting your time and allowing Donovan to waste her breath, though I suppose the latter's not so terrible..."

John didn't reply. He was having trouble holding Sherlock's gaze, and it wasn't due to the height difference that sometimes caused a crick in his neck, in both their necks. _If he was taller maybe Sherlock wouldn't have to worry about that._

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he searched John's face intently. "You...you don't actually believe that, do you?"

"Believe what, exactly?" John asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Sherlock stared at him in astonishment. "You...you do, don't you? John, how could I possibly be bored by you?"

Now there were definitely people staring. John swallowed and lowered his gaze. "Of course you'll get bored of me."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"It has nothing to do with you," John said hurriedly, hoping to erase some of Donovan's cruel words. "I just know...look, I'm ordinary, okay? I'm not exactly handsome and I'm too soft and I'm too quick to believe the best of people and I'm everything you consider weak, and I'm not saying that I want to change myself but...we're not really matched for life, are we? Definitely not as lovers. So don't fret about ending it, whenever you want. You've made me happy, Sherlock, and I hope I've done the same for you, but if you get tired of me just tell me, alright? Promise me you'll do me that courtesy?"

John drew in a deep breath and continued to stare at the floor. Dimly he realized that the music had stopped playing and that meant everyone had just heard that and he shouldn't have ever said that in front of people but the words couldn't stop once they started coming because they'd been in his head for so long, even before they became lovers, and...

In an instant Sherlock had yanked him close, wrapping around him so completely that John could no longer tell if anyone else was in the room, could only feel and see Sherlock.

"Shut up," Sherlock ordered, his voice muffled in John's hair. "Shut up, don't you dare...don't you DARE say things like that."

John struggled, but he didn't really want Sherlock to let go anyways and he didn't want to crush his own hopes with movement.

"How could I ever be bored by you?" Sherlock said wonderingly, stroking a hand through John's boring blond hair. "John Watson, you surprise me every day."

Startled, John tilted his face up to look into his partner's eyes. "I do?"

"Of course you do," Sherlock said with a strangled laugh. "You've surprised me from the day we met, with everything you are. That's quite a reliable trend at this point, wouldn't you say? And more to the point—" he kept his arms firmly around John even as he tried to step away, "there's so much more I want to do with you, all around the world, in London, at home. There's thousands of things left to learn about each other. I want to see what you're like in two months, in two years, in two decades. I want to see what you become, and what we become together. All those possibilities, how could that ever be boring?"

John bit his lip hard. _You are an soldier, and you don't cry._

"Then I suppose there's the important matter of my being in love with you." Sherlock's voice had gone softer, deeper. "And I'm not under any false illusions, John—I see who and what you are, more so than most people, wouldn't you agree? I'm in love with the person you are, for everything you are, even the parts of you that you despise." He put a hand on John's cheek, caressing him. "How could you ever be boring?"

John's eyes apparently decided that soldiers do cry after all.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock said urgently. "What's happened, what did I do?"

John dragged him down and kissed him. It was strange, all those people who said that John was the one who had the way with words. On a computer screen, maybe. But somehow Sherlock had known exactly what John needed to hear and had said it despite their audience, despite his 'reputation', despite every single factor raised against men who want to be sentimental.

John couldn't think of how to say anything back even half so well.

* * *

 

They'd made their excuses after that, leaving to a cheering crowd. Sherlock hadn't let go of John's hand the entire way home, and insisted on sitting right next to him, curled close in the back of the cab.

When they reached their silent flat, John attempted to let go of Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock didn't let him, and pinned him against the wall instead to kiss him more thoroughly than he had at the party. John moaned into the kiss, tightening his free hand into Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock broke the kiss first. "Why didn't you answer Donovan's question?"

John tried to collect his thoughts. "Which question?"

"If you'd cut her off there she would have stopped inquiring," Sherlock answered. "Why didn't you tell her why we haven't consummated our relationship?"

John shrugged. "It's not any of her business."

"But it has nothing to do with you, I told you I wasn't ready," Sherlock said, frowning.

"And that's none of her business," John replied. "You're not the only one who can defend their partner, you know?"

Sherlock studied him. "Ah," he said with some surprise. "You haven't been ready either, have you?"

John bit his lip, worry curling in his stomach again at the thought of baring himself completely, physical and emotional insecurities on display. "I'm just...I want to be good for you."

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him again, slow and sweet. John leaned against the wall, trying to stay upright.

Sherlock kissed up his jaw. "And what if I said I was ready now, John? More than ready?"

John shivered. "I..." then he realized something. "You said it."

"Said what?"

"You said that you loved me," John said. "Back at the party. That's the first time you've ever said it aloud instead of just agreeing with me."

"Is it really?" Sherlock looked contrite. "But you knew it, didn't you?"

John smiled and took a deep breath. "I should have," he answered. "I should have believed it every time you told me, every time you've shown me, but...I don't think I've believed it until now. It felt like—"

"A dream?" John nodded, nestling his face against Sherlock's shoulder.

“I suppose neither of us can be blamed for thinking that,” Sherlock murmured.

They held still for a moment, arms around each other.

"John, are you ready?"

"Yes," John said, and there was no more doubt, no more worry that he would give in because it was expected of him. Sherlock was ready, and so was he.

"Then let's go to bed," Sherlock said, his deep voice carrying a new note, the same promise from the party but made much stronger. "There are many ways of showing love in the… _physical sense_ , John Watson, and I think we should explore them, don't you?"

John laughed. "Together," he promised, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most NSFW I've ever gotten, and I feel accomplished. (shhhh I know it's not that much shhhh) Just a heads up that from now on I'll be skipping more around in both timelines; next week's Victorian, for example, is set almost twenty years after the one three weeks from today.  
> Cheers, Acme.


	13. Hands At Rest (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson have never had much room for peace and quiet. Retirement changes that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is waaaaaaayyyyy into the future for Victorian--don't fret, there'll be moments in between.

            Watson knew it was over when the other doctor gave his professional opinion.

            It coincided with his own, of course, and came to no surprise. He was far past his prime, no matter what Holmes said, and his leg could no longer take the strain of dashing through London. His vision was going, his hand trembled more frequently, and there were occasional, frightening moments when he couldn’t catch his breath.

            It still felt awful.

            Holmes stood near him the whole time, saying nothing to defend him. In a way that felt worse—his husband no doubt knew of his injuries no matter what he did to conceal them, but his lack of rebuttal was shaming. Watson didn’t speak to him as they got into a cab and returned to Baker Street.

            It wasn’t until they were in their rooms that Holmes spoke up. “John—”

            “Oh, you can speak!” Watson stalked across the room to the bookshelf, trying to ignore him.

            “What could I say, John? He was right. You knew as much.”

            “Could you have perhaps offered some form of support?”

            Holmes’ eyes were soft. “You know very well that I agree with him. You’re pushing yourself too hard, John. You’re nearly sixty—that’s not young.”

            “And once again, I am no longer useful.”

            Holmes slammed his hand on the table, eyes turning fierce. “Don’t you ever say that again!”

            Startled by the outburst, Watson turned.

            “Do not doubt your worth,” Holmes said firmly. “Ever. I know you. You will never stop trying to be useful, and you will never fail…until your very bones give out.”

            Watson approached him, not quite knowing what to say.

            “Do you know how many nights I’ve lain awake thinking about losing you?” Holmes managed, voice dropping a whisper. “How many times I’ve watched you beside me on a stakeout, thinking it might be the last time? At least when we were younger the odds were in our favour, but now…I can’t lose you John. Not to something I can prevent. Please don’t ask me to do that, even though I once asked that of you.”

            Watson stepped forward and gripped Holmes’ shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I didn’t think of that.” He paused. “I can’t let you keep going out alone, though. Will you at least take one of the erstwhile Irregulars with you—Wiggins, perhaps?” Bill Wiggins was now a constable who’d been taken under Hopkins’ wing—surely he could protect Holmes.

            Holmes smiled. “My dear Watson, I will take no replacement. Nor will I go out alone.”

            Watson raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

            “You are not the only one aging, John. I am not a young man, and the world has changed. There is still room for my method, but others will supplement it, ones that I do not fully comprehend. The old guard is moving on, Watson—time to pass the torch.”

            Watson couldn’t believe his ears. “You would retire?”

            “Scotland Yard has done some very competent work lately, and there are some, such as Wiggins, who will continue to raise the level of skill in that outfit. Hopkins is well placed as Deputy Commissioner, and with Mrs. Hopkins and Billy to consult when they are out of their depth, it is an ideal time for us to bow out.”

            “And what will you do?”

            Holmes tilted his head. “What do you think about bees?” He laughed at Watson’s befuddled expression. “You may have your garden, of course. I was thinking of a cottage I saw a few months back during that case in Sussex.”

            Watson rolled his eyes. “How long have you been planning this, Sherlock?”

            Holmes fidgeted under his hands. “Not planning, perhaps—merely preparing for eventualities.” He looked directly into Watson’s eyes, gaze serious. “John, I want to spend time with you while we are both still healthy. You will regain your strength, we can dabble in hobbies and consult from afar should things become exceedingly dire.”

            “Don’t you still need work?” Watson asked.

            Holmes stepped closer and wrapped wiry arms around him. “I need you, John. The work has been secondary for years. You know that.”

            He did. Watson could feel his wedding ring pressing against his heart under his shirt as he held Holmes.

            Finally he said, “so Sussex, then?”

****************************************************

            It took a little over two months to get everything sorted. Mrs. Hudson was terribly sad to see them go, but it did allow her to move nearer to her sister’s home in Bath. She hugged them both goodbye, and Watson felt no shame in his tears as he bid her farewell. He couldn’t quite see whether Holmes was doing the same, but he had his suspicions.

            The Yard at large was gobsmacked at the very idea of them retiring, but none protested after Holmes shouted at a few of the louder nasty whisperers about ‘wanting to spare the poor old doctor’. Hopkins thanked them both profusely and accepted, with a certain amount of relief, the offer to own 221 Baker St. outright. He and Kitty would live downstairs and the sets of rooms above, including their own, would be devoted to the care and keeping of the Irregular force, past and present.

            Mycroft didn’t say much, but when Watson went to his practice and found that all of his patients, including those he did not charge, would be taken care of by any available expert at the usual price, he knew what his brother-in-law had done.

            The train to Sussex took an interminable amount of time. Watson tried to sleep, but he was too excited, as was Holmes, who kept glaring at the telegraph lines as though they were responsible for their speed.   

            Finally they arrived. It was just before sunset, and the lad who met them at the station with a carriage told them that a cold supper was laid for them at their table. Watson couldn’t help but smile. _Their_ table. _Their_ house. They’d finally done it.

            They finally drew up to a small brick cottage, perched about one hundred yards from a cliff. The door was a soft gray, and the curtains in the open windows were a muted yellow. A stone path led to the front door. Holmes helped Watson out of the carriage and threw the boy a pound coin. As he drove off they stood together, looking at their new home.

            Holmes stepped forward first, Watson only a step behind. The door was unlocked, the key shining in the handle. Holmes put it carefully into his pocket and opened the door.

            It opened onto a small sitting room with two armchairs close to the fire. A bookcase stood next to the wall, all of their books neatly organized. The kitchen was just through the next door, a bright, airy space with two large windows overlooking the sea.

            To the immediate left was another door. Watson opened it curiously and found a study with a large writing-desk on one end and a table of chemical instruments at the other. Watson was pleased and touched to see there was already writing materials set up on the desk, complete with both his and Holmes’ collections of commonplace books. The chemical table had all of Holmes’ notes and a violin case and music stand next to it.

            “Who did all of this?” Watson asked.

            “I believe Mrs. Hopkins directed the majority of the operations,” Holmes replied. “She’s got quite an eye.”

            “How hard was it to say that?”

            “I’ve been practicing.”

            Watson shook his head and chuckled.

            The final room was just off the kitchen—a bedroom with a large clothes cabinet and a door leading out to the veranda. The walls had a print of delicate bursts of colour against a gray background.

            There were two double beds.

            Watson turned to Holmes with a smile. This had been his idea, and Kitty Hopkins hadn’t batted an eye. Holmes looked shocked, but there was a gentle light in his eyes as he realized what was going on.

            “We don’t have to use both of them, you know,” Watson said quietly, startled by a sudden lump in his throat.

            Holmes blinked rapidly and wrapped his arms around Watson. There was no one to see them now—their nearest neighbour was almost two miles off. No one to barge in, no one to judge, no one to report them. They could share a room now without consequence, without fear of discovery as they had the few times they’d thrown caution to the winds.

            Watson held his husband tightly, stroking his thinning hair as they stood in their room.

            Soon—all too soon, but there was time for that later—Holmes pulled away, swiping at his eyes. “Would you like to see the garden? And the bees?”

            Watson laughed. “You and your bees,” he said fondly. “Of course.”

            Then he thought of something—something he’d longed to do for years, but never quite dared, no matter what else they’d done.

            Watson reached under his shirt and pulled out the ring Holmes had given him nearly twenty years before. He put it on, sliding it perfectly into place. He reached out and took Holmes’ hand.

            “Come on, love, let’s go look.”

            Holmes smiled at him with a tenderness he usually had to hide and squeezed his hand. He took his own ring out of his ‘pocket-watch’ and put it on his free hand. “Lead on, my dear John.”

            And hand in hand they walked together through the door towards the bees, the garden, and their new and honest life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points for those of you who know your canon well and can guess at who the mysterious Mrs. Hopkins is. Her backstory will be addressed (in both timelines) in the coming weeks. Along with a certain...other event.  
> Cheers!  
> Acme


	14. Slips Of The Tongues (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are home from their honeymoon, Greg is happy and some wires get crossed.

New Scotland Yard was bracing itself. All the files were triple checked, open cases were worked on with feverish intensity, and all the coffee had disappeared. Some of the people in the holding cells were infected by the mood too, insisting on confessing.

In short, Sherlock Holmes and his husband were soon to return from their honeymoon.

It had been a blessedly quiet, slightly frustrating month. No crazy spiels of deduction, no awkward 'they're-kissing-behind-the-crime-scene again' moments, but also not nearly as much progress on the more baffling cases. Some would say that the detectives were well due back, but nearly everyone was a little fearful. What would post-honeymoon Sherlock Holmes and John Watson look like? Act like?

The only person who truly wasn't worried about the imminent return of 'Consulting Detectives Inc.' was DI Lestrade.

Greg whistled cheerfully as he came into work that Wednesday morning. He waved to Dimmock, sorted his paperwork without the usual groaning, and was pleasant to everyone who spoke to him, even Anderson.

Now Greg wasn't a morose person by any means, and he was certainly friends with Sherlock and John, so it made sense that he'd be pleased. Still, there was something a bit...odd about it. If his subordinates were pressed to describe his attitude towards the newlyweds, the cleverer ones would use the term 'lovingly exasperated'. He certainly wouldn't be playing Vivaldi (quietly, of course, but with his office door cracked you could just hear it) just because they were coming home.

Then again, he'd been doing that a lot lately.

Greg didn't notice any of the speculation going on outside his door, nor, truthfully, would he have cared. For the first time in years, he felt genuinely cheerful, looking forward to going home. His home wouldn't be empty anymore, nor would it have any fretful, passive-aggressive, cheating wife.

Greg Lestrade was in love, the kind he'd never really known—passionate, certainly, but comfortable too. They'd walked into this relationship rather by accident, but looking back he supposed it had just been a slow, gentle process of changing feelings and priorities.

Hadn't he the right to be cheerful?

Apparently not, for the phone rang just as he was nearly finished with the last bit of paperwork before lunch. Greg groaned and answered it without looking at the caller ID.

"DI Lestrade."

"Hello...Greg."

Greg relaxed immediately. "Hello love, how's your day?"

There was a long pause.

"What?!"

Greg went white. "Sherlock?"

"Of course it's me! Who did you think it was?"

This time it was Greg that couldn't answer.

"OH GOD NO."

There was a scuffling sound at the other end of the phone, then John came on—clearly, obviously John. "Hello, Greg? What just happened? Sherlock's gone upstairs, and he's muttering about...bad news?"

Greg put his head in his hands. "I—nothing, how was your honeymoon?"

"Lovely. Although now I'm concerned about my husband." 

Greg wished briefly for the ground to swallow him, but with his luck he'd end up in China without a passport.

"I mistook your husband for someone else."

"You need a hearing aid, mate." John paused a moment. "Hang on...who did you think he was?"

Why not make it even worse? "His brother," Greg said hesitantly.

He had to tear the phone away from his ear a second later as John burst out roaring with laughter. Greg glared at his phone, his cheeks turning bright red. "It's not bloody funny!"

That seemed to set John off again. Greg groaned. "I'm never going to live this down."

"Probably not. Sher will come around, though. I think he's just startled." John was still chuckling, but his voice had turned much warmer. "So...you and Mycroft, eh? How long?"

"I don't know, honestly," Greg admitted, willing his blush to die down. "It's not as though we've been dating in secret or something--we've been friends for ages, way back when I was still married to Dolores. I dunno...something just changed. I suppose our official first date was about a week after your wedding."

"Sometimes love works that way," John said reasonably. "I never did peg you for bisexual, though."

"Nor did I," Greg admitted. "I don't think it's all men, either...I think it's just him."

"I know what you mean. I suppose we're just Holmes-sexual." A beat passed. "Shoot me for saying that. Immediately."

It was Greg's turn to laugh. "Holmes-sexual," he gasped, wiping his eyes. John was all but growling into the phone. "My God, I want that on a T-shirt. Wait until Mycroft hears that one."

"You wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"It's—Greg, I thought we were friends."

"We are. And it's my right—nay, my duty as your friend to embarrass you as often as possible."

"Please don't."

"Or else what?

"Or else I'll tell Sherlock once he's calmed down that the best way he could show his support for you and Mycroft being together would be for him to stand in front of the entire Yard staff and make a declaration."

Greg winced. "You fight dirty, Doctor."

John laughed. "Do we have a deal?"

"Sure, why not?" Greg was, after all, in a good mood. He could always tell Mycroft (and Sherlock too, while he was at it) much later, when they were publicly out.

And that's precisely what he did.

Then Greg forgot about it, and a year later he and Mycroft got married ("I went to all the trouble to legalize it, Gregory, why not take advantage?" "That is the least romantic proposal I've ever heard. "So it's yes?" "Of course it's yes, I was just pointing that out.") In a gesture of goodwill, he asked John to be his best man.

He sorely regretted it when the stag night began.

"Why the HELL are we going to see _Les Miserables_?"

"Mycroft doesn't like it, and I thought it'd give you one last chance to see it," John said innocently.

"I don't like it either!"

"You don't? Ah, what a shame."

John did relent after Act One. Greg had learned his lesson, one he should have learned long ago. 'Never mess with a Holmes, even if it's only by marriage.'

Once he was one of them, he'd test that theory further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I know I said Kitty, but I realized I needed to establish one last couple first. Cheers, Acme


	15. The Love Story of Miss W (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some excerpts from the diary of Dr. Watson, concerning Miss Kitty W.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm experimenting with first person, let me know what you think!  
> Also, for those of you who don't know who Kitty Winter is, she was a character in 'the Adventure of the Illustrious Client'; she was horribly abused by a sadistic monster...and threw vitriol in his face. She's basically so much better than Irene Adler. Stanley Hopkins is a young detective (similar to Dimmock's character but much more polite) who idolizes Holmes. Together, they are my new OTP.

_From the Journal of Dr. John Watson, October 1902_

            It has been months since I wrote in this journal, simply because nothing of great note has happened in my personal relationship with Sherlock Holmes; at least, nothing that I cannot write about elsewhere. We have been married nearly six months now, and we are very happy.

I am still hesitant to write these words, for fear of this book falling into the wrong hands. But I must write these words down, to stop them from coming out of my mouth. I must trace my love across these pages, as I cannot write them anywhere else.

            Something happened today that is not entirely to do with us, but is another story that must be guarded. And yet…I will still write it, in case someday there comes a reader who wishes to know the full truth.

            The last case we worked, published under the name ‘The Adventure of the Illustrious Client’, was finally wrapped up judicially. Miss Winter was cleared of all charges[1], but she was not in the court room to hear the verdict. Sherlock didn’t tell me what was going on, but I hoped the young lady had gotten away. I read through Gruner’s book and I was utterly sickened by his depravity. Holmes and I have confronted monsters before, but I pray that there is a special Hell for souls like his.

            Then again, I am sure that people say the same about those who love as Holmes and I do.

            When we returned from court Mrs. Hudson met us at the door. She informed us that we had a visitor. My husband did not seem surprised, which intrigued me. Mrs. Hudson withdrew to the kitchen, promising tea in an hour, and we ascended the stairs together.

            The fire was lit in the sitting room, but the dark haired woman sitting in the visitor’s chair was wrapped up warmly, a thick veil shrouding her face. Sherlock closed the door behind us.

            “Well now, Miss Winter, have you made a decision?”

            The woman threw the veil off and stood. The fiery passion that had twisted her face when we first met her had faded, and with her fair hair dyed it took a moment for me to recognize Miss Kitty Winter.

            “Hello, Doctor, Mr. Holmes,” she said, and her smile seemed genuine. “I believe I have, Mr. Holmes, though why you want to help me is still beyond me.”

            Sherlock smiled at me. It’s infuriating when he does that; he is so pleased about surprising me that he forgets that I might actually have benefited from understanding the whole situation.

            “Hello, Miss Winter,” I said. “I am glad to see you uninjured, though I must admit that my partner has told me nothing of why you’re here.”

            Miss Winters laughed. “Of course he didn’t! Goodness, you two are funny.” Her eyes no longer sparked with fury and pain; they glinted with spirit instead. “Well, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes has offered to help me disappear, hence the change of appearance. I do believe dark hair suits me, don’t you?”

            I spread my hands. “I believe you would look lovely under any circumstances, Miss Winter.” I glanced at Sherlock. “Can I be of any assistance, Holmes?”

            “Of course, my dear fellow.” Holmes sat on the sofa, and I did the same. “So you have decided to remain in London then, Miss Winter?”

            “I want to,” she said frankly. “It’s my home, Hell or not, and with a new face I might be able to find another start.”

            “Surely things cannot be easy for a single woman in this city?” I asked.

            “I’ve managed perfectly well until now, Doctor. Even after…well, but that’s done now.” Miss Winter shook her head.

            “I meant no offence,” I said hastily. “I know that you are more than capable…but things might be easier if you had a story to go with your name.”

            “This is why I told you we should ask him,” Holmes confided to Miss Winter. “The good doctor has always been a tale-spinner.”

            I rolled my eyes. “It’s really quite simple. If you have a family background it will be easier for you to obtain lodgings in a safer part of town. You will also be questioned less if people believe that you have a family to live with but have made the choice to live apart for reasons of independence.”

            “That’s a pretty story, Doctor, but I’ve no living family, and I don’t need to be asking more strangers for charity.”

            “I could do it,” I said, surprising myself.

            Miss Winter’s eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

            I thought for a moment. “Those who read my stories are aware that I once had a brother. It would be no great stretch if I had another, but if he had died young, leaving a widow and a small child…and then, upon the tragic loss of her mother, the child, now grown, came to London…”

            Holmes clapped. “Capital, Watson!”

            Miss Winter stared at me. “And you wouldn’t be ashamed to call me a relation, Doctor? I don’t intend to change much of who I am.”

            I reached out and took her hand. Her eyes were brighter now, perhaps, but there was still a shadow there of remembered loneliness and fear. I remembered seeing that expression in the mirror.

            “I would be honoured to be related to a girl—no, a woman of such bravery and strength,” I said firmly. “Welcome to the family, Miss Kate Watson.”

            Miss Winter smiled at me. “I’m proud of that name…Uncle. And you’d better call me Kitty; I’ve always hated ‘Kate’, that’s what an awful great-aunt of mine called me.”

            I chuckled. “Agreed.”

            Sherlock took her to find lodgings shortly after, acting in ‘his goddaughter’s’ interests. I thought that was inspired, on his part—should she begin to call him Uncle Sherlock (should we ever tell her the truth of our relationship), none will be the wiser.

_February 1903_

            I find myself writing again as a continuation of the previous entry. Kitty Watson has found an excellent boarding-house and has made several friends. She has even acquired a job doing some typing for Scotland Yard (entirely on her own, I may add, and none the wiser so far as to her true identity). She visits at least once a week, and I have found myself caring for her as dearly as if she were my own niece. Sherlock adores her too, and has begun training her in the art of observation; she is a far better student than I could ever hope to be.

            This evening she dropped in after her job finished for the day. Kitty was doing some amusing impersonations of various police officers over coffee and Holmes was correcting her form even as he chuckled.

            Just as she was about to leave, Hopkins burst in, having run up the stairs. He clutched a woman’s bag in his hand and he was breathing hard.

            “Miss Watson, you left your bag at the station.”

            Kitty leapt to her feet, and I was surprised to see her blush. “Oh, thank you, Stanley. I hadn’t realized I left it.”

            “How did you know she would be here?” I asked sharply. Hopkins is a good lad, but Kitty needs no more men peering over her life as though she were an insect.

            “I told him I was coming to visit you, Uncle John. Stanley—I mean, Mr. Hopkins is a good friend to me at the station. We often talk when it’s slow.”

            I exchanged a quick glance with my husband. “It’s lovely that you two are getting along,” I said finally. “Hopkins is a friend of ours.”

            “A good detective,” Sherlock allowed, though I saw his gaze harden as Kitty took the bag from Hopkins, her hand brushing against his. “Any official business, Hopkins?”

            “No sir,” Hopkins said, and he was blushing too now. “I’ll be going.”

            “I’d better leave too,” Kitty said, quickly brushing a kiss to my cheek. “I need to return in time for supper, or Mrs. Turner will have my head.”

            “Goodnight, Kitty.” Holmes continued to stare at Hopkins even as Kitty patted his shoulder.

            “I’ll walk with you,” Hopkins said quickly. “It’s dark out, and it’s not far, is it?”

            “That’s kind of you, Detective,” Kitty said.

            The two of them went downstairs together. As I heard the front door close, Holmes sprang to the window. “They’re walking arm in arm, John!”

            I considered this for a moment. “Kitty’s a grown woman,” I said. “And unfortunately she may be a better judge of men than we can be.”

            “But still…Hopkins!” Holmes shook his head. “The fellow’s got half her brains.”

            I joined him at the window, watching the two walk down the street, walking so close they almost seemed to be one figure.

            “Does that really matter, Holmes, if he’s got her heart?” I put a hand on his shoulder.

            He put his hand over mine. “I suppose not.”

            “You’re still going to talk to him, aren’t you?”

            “Of course. She’s my goddaughter.”

            I just laughed, for if I know my husband and my surrogate niece I know two things for certain. The first is that we will both speak to Hopkins, and make it clear that he should have Kitty’s best interests at heart. The second is that Kitty will have prepared him for this talk, and will make a scene of great distress and enjoy herself hugely.

_May 1903_

            Sometimes love is simply happy, and those occasions deserve note.

            Kitty and Hopkins have been seeing a great deal of each other in the last few months; they are officially courting.

            Three days ago Hopkins asked the two of us—dear fellow, he knows what we are—for Kitty’s hand in marriage. It is rather sudden, but Hopkins promises that they will not wed straight away. “I just want her to know that I love her and will forever,” he said earnestly. Of course, Sherlock and I agreed, provided that Kitty herself assents. Sherlock considers that a foregone conclusion.

            I was not entirely certain of that. While Kitty loves Stan—that, any with eyes can see—my girl is still damaged. I know what kind of wounds love can give, and I feared that she would refuse to trust herself enough to love again.

            I reckoned without her stubbornness and Hopkins’ dedication.

            Sherlock and I were returning from the theatre just before sunset when I grabbed his arm. Just down the alley we were passing I saw Kitty and Hopkins standing close together.

            To my consternation Sherlock drew me down the alley. It was utterly ridiculous; there was nowhere to hide but a narrow doorway, and I was sure that one of the two would turn and see us. And yet…it was far easier to hear what they were saying.

            “Stan, I don’t know if you want this. Not with me.”  
            “Kitty, darling, why not?”

            “You don’t know who I am.” Kitty’s face was drawn with fear as she stared up at Hopkins. “If you knew…”

            “Just tell me, Kitty. Please don’t think the worst of me before I’ve given reason.”

            Kitty laughed. “And I always hated it when people did that to me, didn’t I?” She ducked her head. “Stan, Uncle John…well, he’s not my uncle. My name’s Kitty Winter.”

            Stan stared at her. “The Kitty Winter…”

            “Yes, that one.”

            Stan bit his lip. “Well, you’ll be changing your name anyways if you agree. And Kitty Winter is just as pretty a name as Kitty Watson, though I like Kitty Hopkins better.”

            Kitty looked up, eyes wide. “Stan…do you know what I’ve done?”

            “I do. And I know what was done to you, too. And I also know that you are the most wonderful woman that I have ever met, brave and strong and true and funny.” He cradled her face in his hands. “I love you, Kitty, and that’s the most important thing that I have ever known. And if you can try to love me too…”

            Kitty kissed him, and I tapped Holmes’ arm. I knew we had no more business there.

            I am proud of Kitty, but I am also proud of Stan. Confessing love is never easy, and loving someone with a difficult past is not easy, but if you can give someone the gift of a happy future, the effort is worth it. I am sure they will both know this soon.

            _Two Days Later_

They are due to be married in November. Hopkins has asked Sherlock to be his best man, and Kitty wishes for me to escort her. Kitty knows about us now. She has promised not to say a word, and calls our arrangement ‘frightfully romantic’. I am not entirely sure this is a compliment.

 

[1] In the book it says that Kitty got a sentence—the lightest one possible—but it also says that Watson wasn’t living at Baker Street so….I do what I want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like the fluff! Kitty and Stan will be showing up in modern times too, under slightly different circumstances.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	16. Big Brother Is Always Watching, Watson, Allllwwaaaaayyssss…. (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft needs to get one thing perfectly clear. John understands a whole lot more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me someone got that reference. I also thought I’d give another style a try. Let me know what you think! Set about a week after ‘Sleeping on It’. Also John has a potty mouth.  
> Edit: This is set in the BBC 'verse.

            “What the hell is going on?”

            “Ah, you’re awake.”

            “Oh for f—”

            “Profanity hardly becomes the educated man, wouldn’t you say?”

            “Go fuck yourself.”

            “Indelicate.”

            “Why am I here? And where is here?”

            “The Strangers Room at my Club.”

            “And why…”

            “You haven’t already guessed? Come now, we are both more intelligent…at least I believed so.”

            “…Goddamnit.”

            “There we are.”

            “I was…we were going to tell you.”

            “I am rather disappointed I never got an announcement.”

            “We’re not getting married, for God’s sake!”

            “And yet here we are, two men who already live together have decided to embark on a romantic relationship. You’ve already done things out of conventional style, so…”

            “Not yet. We’ve been together two weeks, getting married would be a bit fast.”

            “I applaud your reasoning. Now, on to the most important bit.”

            “I don’t believe it.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “You really love him, don’t you?”

            “…Is that not what I’m supposed to be asking you?”

            “You already know I love him. You’ve known as long as everyone else I'm sure, way longer than I even knew, just for the record. But this…taking me to your club, drugged and bound, threatening me in person rather than a phone call…I must say, this was more than I expected. More than he expected.”

            “That is neither here nor there.”

            “The hell it isn’t. You care for him more than you ever want to and so you hide behind the same cold look you give everyone else, because, _logically_ , he is just another person. But you can’t quite manage it, can you?”

            “…I have tried.”

            “Stop trying. You’re hurting him. You’re hurting yourself, and you’re wasting time.”

            “Speaking from personal experience, Doctor?”

            “I am. Not just from my own, though.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

            “Try me.”

            “Let me put it this way. I was told that not only were my feelings valid, but they were returned…and I was told this by myself.”

            “I am not sure I understand.”

            “Ask your brother.”

            “I will. Now, back to the matter at hand.”

            “Right. Look, I will do everything in my power to love your little brother with all I have for the rest of my life, or as long as he wants me, whichever comes last. And if I hurt him, I will fully expect to feel the wrath of the British Government, though I do hope you’ll eventually learn to trust me with his heart. Are we done?”

            “…You have a way of surprising me, Doctor Watson, that manages to be endearing rather than irritating. I hope this will not change.”

            “It won’t. Promise.”

            “Good. Now, you had better be using protection. I know there’s no chance of pregnancy—”

            “MYCROFT!”

            “Am I not, as the older brother, meant to embarrass you as well?”

            “You’re meant to embarrass _him_ , not _me_.”

            “Where’s the fun in that?”


	17. Being Human (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place before Victoria Sails.  
> Warnings for discussion of drug usage and the death of innocents, one of whom is a child.  
> This is likely the darkest chapter I've published, and hopefully it will remain so, but this is an issue I felt needed to be dealt with.

            A dark, gloomy night had descended on London. Watson scoffed at the sky before he followed Holmes inside. If he chose to write this case down, he would have to leave that detail out, for fear people would call him cliché. After all, the sky rarely reflects the moods of mortals so perfectly.

            Watson sighed deeply as he put his medical bag down in the hall. No point taking it upstairs; he couldn’t stand to look at it. All its instruments and medicine hadn’t helped the devastated young woman they’d had to leave behind in that old, now horribly empty house.

            Holmes had already dashed up the stairs and Watson took a moment to prepare himself. The last six months had seen great progress in his quest to wean Holmes off the needles, but this kind of case, and the horrible ending were exactly the kind of events that promised a setback.

            Dreading the scene he’d find, Watson climbed the stairs, his leg twinging painfully. He ignored it; rain always made it hurt, and the exertion of the night had been pointless, why bother coddling it? If he’d only been faster…

            If he’d been faster, the abducted gentleman would have made it home to his desperate, loving wife. Their child, who’d been abducted first, wouldn’t have screamed watching her father die, and she wouldn’t have been struck in a panic. Now the wife was a widow, the mother childless.

            Watson knew that there was nothing they could have done. They were called in too late, the police hadn’t even been notified until the husband was taken as well…Mrs. Brown had been fearful, taking hours to tell them who she suspected…and she’d been right, but they were far away by then.

            It didn’t help at all, but he needed some kind of argument to face Holmes.

            Then he entered the room and saw the needle in Holmes’ hand, and all thought of argument went out the window.

            “Sherlock!”

            Holmes looked up through glassy eyes, the needle steady in his hand. “I believe today’s events warrant some kind of exception, Watson.”

            Watson walked forward a few more steps, stopping when he was within arms’ reach. “Sherlock, you told me this was for thinking, making things more clear. Why…in God’s name, _why_ would you make today more clear? Give yourself some oblivion, man.”  
            Holmes opened his mouth. The sound that came out was the deepest, harshest perversion of a laugh Watson had ever heard: his skin crawled just to hear it.

            “I forgot that was the lie I went with,” Holmes said when the sound stopped, turning his attention back to the needle.

            Watson snapped. He reached forward and snatched the needle, tossing it on the table behind him. “What lie, Sherlock? Why would you lie to me about this.” He checked around him, but there were no sounds from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson must have gone to bed. “Sherlock, dear, tell me. What’s going through your mind?” He reached out and took hold of his lover’s shoulders, who shuddered under the touch.

            “Through my mind? John, I doubt you truly want to know.”

            “I can guess at some, but I can’t help you if I don’t know.” Watson squeezed his shoulders. “Please, love. Don’t shut me out.”

            Holmes made that horrible noise again. “What am I thinking? I am thinking that I despise my brain and my body, because they are too quick for ordinary people but not quick enough to solve the most important problems. I am thinking that there is a soul in utter agony tonight and I could do nothing to stop that outcome. I am thinking that I must stop turning to chemical comfort because it upsets you, but I do not know how to do without it. I am thinking a hundred other things as I think this, but those are the chief problems. Tell me, Doctor, what is your diagnosis?” His body trembled under Watson’s hands.

            Watson’s whole body ached. How could he help, what could he say, what could he do? Desperately, his mind seized on the one question he could ask. “You call it comfort…” he said slowly. “But you don’t usually refer to it as such.”

            Holmes choked on a sob of laughter. “Oh, I forgot, I have managed to hide that from you. Yes, John, the cocaine is a distraction, a game when I’m bored, but it also makes me think…and that’s all I can do, think and puzzle and deduce until I am too exhausted to feel.”

            “And how does that give you comfort?” Watson asked.

            “My dear Watson, all I am good for is thinking.”

            Horror struck, Watson moved his hands to Holmes’ face. “Don’t you dare think that. Ever. That isn’t true.”

            “Why not? I cannot give what other men can give so easily—entertainment, kindness, affection. All I have to offer is my brain, so is it really so awful that I ask the world to give me more to think about?”

            Watson pulled him into his arms, sheltering the man who’d always seemed so fragile, and now he knew why. “Sherlock…dear heart…” Holmes struggled but Watson held him tightly. “You offer so much more than your brain. You offered yourself, and the world saw only your brilliance. It’s a peculiarity of humans that they can notice only one thing about a person, and continue to only see that. So they see your astonishing mind, and they are blinded to your great heart.”

            “I have nothing to give from that.”

            “Then explain me.” Watson cradled Holmes’ head with one hand. “Explain how you have given me entertainment and kindness and affection. How you have given your heart, dangerous as it is.” He drew back just enough to look Holmes in the eye. “You deserve to seek comfort for the pain in your heart, Sherlock. And I’m here, I’m right here.”

            “You weren’t always. You couldn’t always.”

            “How often did you turn to the drug because of me?” Watson asked, voice shaking as he remembered the early days of their friendship, the days just before his marriage…oh God.

            Holmes turned away. “It was no fault of your own, John. It was always my decision.”

            Watson drew him close again, his own arms shaking with the force of his fear. “I’m here, Sherlock.” It was all he could say. “I’m here, and I love you. Let me feel your pain, let me take it on myself. Let me give you comfort.”

            Holmes buried his face in Watson’s shoulder and wept.

            The rest of that night, long hours in the dark, passed slowly. Quiet, broken reassurances, and careful kisses were exchanged. Watson didn’t let go of Holmes, and Holmes didn’t let go of Watson.

            In the morning the two went for a long walk together before breakfast. When Mrs. Hudson came in, she was startled yet relieved to see the shattered remains of several hypodermic needles scattered on the hearth.

            Holmes never replaced them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah? Sorry about that. I was listening to Human by Christina Perri for inspiration, and as such it got hella depressing. I promise some more cheerful stuff next week.  
> Also, I am still taking prompts! Victorian or modern, either is fine; again, my only request is no porn--can't write it on technical grounds. If someone wants to write porn (or even other things) in this verse, or draw something...I mean, that would be awesome. Just link it to me so I can see it!  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	18. Migraine (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a migraine. John is there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set about a year after the Dream.

It was during a "mandatory paperwork session, come on you two, if you're going to help with cases, you have to help with the paperwork" night that John glanced over at his partner and saw him squinting.

            There was no reason for Sherlock to be doing so; the room was well lit, he wasn't currently reading anything at all, and no one was speaking loudly or presenting something far away.

            John reached over and took his hand. "Sherlock, you okay?"

            Sherlock blinked, squinting again. "I...."

            John looked closer. Sherlock's jaw was tense, his entire body was held stiffly, and his eyes were unfocused.

            "Sherlock?"

            Then he got it. Stupid of him, really, he should know the signs by now. It hadn't been that long since his own last one. "Are you having fragmented vision?"

            "Yes." The word was forced out through barely open lips. Sherlock's forehead was covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

            John lowered his voice. "Sherlock, close your eyes." He waited until Sherlock obeyed, then carefully drew his chair closer, trying to make as little noise as possible. "Are you having a migraine?"

            "I...I believe so."

            "Okay. Don't worry, dear, I'll get you home."

            "I'm alright."

            "Sherlock, you can't work like this. Don't be stupid. Everything's alright."

            John looked across the table and met Greg's confused eyes. "We've got to go home, Greg, Sherlock has a migraine."

            Greg nodded quickly and got up. "I can drive you home."

            "Can you? That's brilliant, it'll be easier than a cab." John held Sherlock's hand firmly, rubbing soothing circles over his palm. "Keep your eyes closed, dear, you're just fine."

            "This isn't necessary. No one has to go to any trouble."

            "Don't worry about it," Greg said gruffly. "You should have said something earlier."

            "Come on dear, stand up," John said gently. "I'll guide you down, we'll get you home alright."        

            Sherlock didn't respond as John led him slowly through the police station, ignoring the confused stares of the few Yarders around this late. Greg nodded to Dimmock as they reached the door. "I'm going to take these two home, Sherlock's ill."

            Dimmock raised his eyebrows. John glared at him. "He's got a migraine, Dimmock."

            Dimmock's face changed to a look of great concern. "Christ, those are terrible. Make sure he has water, dehydration makes them last a hell of a lot longer."

            "I'll keep that in mind," John said sincerely, privately thinking that his own migraines left him too nauseous to drink. He'd see how Sherlock felt.

            "Why are you talking about me as if I'm not here?" Sherlock complained.

            "Hush," John said soothingly as they began walking to the car park. "Try not to talk, love."

            John helped Sherlock into Greg's car and sat right next to him. "Keep your eyes closed," he reminded Sherlock. "It'll keep down the nausea." He cursed himself for not bringing his medical bag. "Greg, have you got any paracetamol?

            Greg dug in his glove compartment for a moment, finally coming up with a pill bottle. As he drove out of the car park, John let go of Sherlock's hand and uncapped the bottle, shaking out two pills. Extra strength. Good.

            John put the pills in Sherlock's hand. "Those are two extra strength paracetamol pills," he whispered. "Take them now. It'll help with the pain. Do you want water?"

            Sherlock shook his head, swallowed them dry. He reached out for John's hand again. John held it tightly. He didn't let go for the entire trip back to Baker Street.

            When they got there Greg opened the door for them and John helped Sherlock out. The night was fair for once, and you could almost see the stars, but John didn't comment on that. Greg looked at him a bit helplessly.

            "Go on back to the Yard," John said gently. "I'll look after him. We'll come in tomorrow and finish the work; at least I will."

            "Christ, don't worry about that." Greg patted Sherlock's shoulder awkwardly. "Feel better, mate."

            John dug out his key and opened the door. Mrs. Hudson was likely asleep, and John helped Sherlock up the stairs as quietly as he could.

            When they got to their room, John started to take Sherlock's clothes off. "It'll help you sleep more comfortably," he said as Sherlock protested. "Eyes closed, dear." When Sherlock was in boxers John laid him down on the bed. Sherlock didn't have a fever so he tucked him under the blankets, then released his hand.

            "John?" Sherlock's frightened tone nearly broke John's heart.

            "I'm just going to get a bowl and some Cinnarizine," John said soothingly. "I'll be right back."

            He was right back carrying a damp flannel and a glass of water as well as the other items, but in that time tears had begun to seep out from under Sherlock's eyelids. John quickly placed the things on the nightstand and knelt beside the bed, drawing Sherlock into his arms. "It's alright, dear, I'm right here."

            "It hurts."

            John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, wishing dearly that they were in a fairy tale, and his love could soothe Sherlock's anguished brain. "What number are you at?"

            "Seven." Worse than a broken bone. When John used to get migraines they would last for days, but the pain rarely reached more than a four.

            "My poor dear," John murmured. "I'm so sorry." He gently laid Sherlock back against the pillows. "Here, I have some Cinnarizine here. If you take two of these that should help you sleep well enough, and it will help with nausea."

            Sherlock took the pills without protesting. John wiped his face with the cool flannel. "Go to sleep, love," he whispered. "When you wake up things will be better."

            "And if they're not?" Sherlock's voice was a broken whisper. "Sleep usually cures it, but not always."

            "Then I'll be right here to make it better," John promised. Still touching Sherlock, he moved quickly around the bed and got in under the covers, spooning Sherlock from behind. "I'm right here, dear. I'm sorry you're in pain. Don't worry."

            He stayed beside Sherlock until morning, when his partner woke, migraine mercifully gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an aside, all migraines are different, and you should definitely not take medicine without consulting someone other than a fanfiction writer, but the remedy John gives Sherlock (Gravol instead of the Cinnarizine, I'm in Canada, eh) as well as the migraine symptoms are typical for my migraines.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	19. The Song (Victorian)

The song began in a fit of pique with a new flatmate. How dare the doctor move his books? They were, perhaps, all over the chairs, but hang it all he had been looking for something. A quick trill, a twang of string, on the master’s finest violin.

It resurfaced a few nights later in an utterly different mood, a few low arpeggios in the dead of night as faint moans of pain and terror filtered through the firmly-locked door. The scales softened into low melodic chords, and the nightmare faded.

A bright, happy set of notes on the higher strings joined the tune when their first story came out. Horribly inaccurate and sentimental, but...it was nice, after all, to be thought so clever.

Then the song changed into a lilting, waltzing melody after a dinner and chase of a criminal, played by a man fairly giddy with joy and a sense of pure rightness, that for once he belonged with someone. Someone so remarkable as his flatmate, the best man he'd ever known.

Then everything was brought sharply, squeakily into focus with a misjudged slip of the hand, a meeting of eyes, and the violin fell silent with surprise and a dawning horror.

The song was quiet for a long time, though the violin played other songs—ballads instead of fugues, Mendelssohn instead of Beethoven, songs to sleep to instead of songs to think to. The violin understood its master's fingers, and kept the true notes disguised under soft, distant harmonies. The master hoped to put the wistful notes to sleep by playing them out, but when he least expected it his fingers would retrace the same patterns, and only a quick change of key would keep suspicion at bay. 

Then the song came back with wrathful, grief stricken vengeance, a punishment for daring to hope for happiness. The same violin that had played a wedding waltz now moaned and wailed, angry with itself, angry with the world, weeping for a love not understood nor allowed.

The song was banished, coming out only in feeble, weak moments and movements, a nostalgic push for a past that wasn't real, a future that never would be. The master despised himself, but there were times that the song was the only way to keep from going insane, from abandoning any and all logic that kept him alive. So he played.

Then the violin itself fell silent for years, kept in a case, holding the secrets of the weeping visitor and the absent master alike. The song followed the master wherever he went, haunting him, strengthening his resolve to return and put it to rest, one way or another.

The song did play again at last, but it was wistful now, humbled into melancholy remembrance of pain caused and pain suffered. Late at night, quiet to keep anyone from waking, delicate, slow pizzicato plucked on heartstrings wrung nearly dry of tears.

 

Then a dream awakened the song in full, and for the first time it was played openly, each part coming together into an exquisite, triumphant melody that dared the world to bring in minor chords. Nothing was forgotten, but new notes crowded in every day until the darkest, most atonal parts were mere measures in a symphony of contentment.

The song was worked upon constantly, and for the first time written down, music into ink, heart into paper. Each note was slaved upon as the master tried to place the music that had so long been at his fingertips into permanent record. His listener had words; he had notes. This was his gift, and it needed to be the best.

At last the song was presented from trembling fingers into the listener's hands. The listener, who had caught snatches of the song for years, never understanding the music to be for him, about him. Never guessing that the notes were the words of a man who had never known how to show his heart.

For once the listener had no words. He traced the notes one by one, translating the melody, reading his lover's heart in full for the first time.

It was a late night, and no one would be watching them, but the listener drew the curtains before taking the master's ringed hand, pulling him to his feet.

"Play it."

The master held no violin; could not, in his listener's arms. And the song was not meant for any but the finest of instruments; any less would surely be an insult.

But the listener insisted, and the master obeyed. He sang softly, spinning them around their home, stepping carefully, hiding nothing, missing nothing. He watched his listener's face as they danced, singing their life together into a dance.

The song did not end with the written version. After all, its title was _Quinque_ —five years since the night the song was made whole, five years since the master knew his listener's heart, five years of love without longing.

When the song was called _Decem_ , there were words woven deep into the melody; not lyrics or libretto, but words that were music in themselves, words like _heart_ and _dear_ and _magnificent_ ; words like _comfort_ and _belonging_ and _together_ ; words that came out not in the strings of a violin, but in the notes of a clarinet. 

The song followed the master and the listener, shaking them out of dark days, warming them on cold ones, showing their love even when they wondered, in foolish, fleeting moments, whether it could last. It was music they both understood, for it understood them both; their weaknesses, their strengths, their forgiveness and their passion.

The song became _Viginti_ , and both master and listener swore that there was none finer in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is set in the Victorian Era, but feel free to headcanon it as both. If Sherlock could write John and Mary's wedding song Holmes can damn well play out his feelings. And then share them. The titles are Latin numbers—Five, Ten and Twenty respectively, for the anniversaries of the Dream.  
> Quick glossary of musical terms: arpeggios are the notes of a chord played in order, pizzicato is plucking the violin strings instead of using a bow, and atonal just means ‘not written in a key’, and usually sounds out of place in a song (not always, please don’t murder me music student/ musician readers).  
> Hope you all enjoyed, and look out for a special multi-part story next week that’s a long time coming. I owe you, after all.  
> I. Owe. You.  
> Cheers!  
> Acme


	20. Eye (pt. 1 of 3) (BBC arc)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovers have a conversation, a brother doubts, and a fall begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IS EVERYONE READY FOR REICHENBACH?!  
> Too bad. It's happening anyways.  
> This chapter begins in the middle of the episode 'The Reichenbach Fall', and the bolded text is a direct quote from the episode. All the break-ins happened, and Moriarty is on trial.  
> Also, wee bit more swearing than usual. Hope no one minds.

“ ** _Mr. Holmes, you’ve been called here to answer Miss Sorrel’s questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess.  Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt. Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?”[1]_**

            John watched Sherlock open his mouth, then look at him. As their eyes met, John shook his head.

            Sherlock inclined his head to the judge. “Apologies, Your Honour. As my partner could tell you, I tend to ramble when I am excited. I will stop…showing off.”

            Mollified, the judge sat back. “Continue, Miss Sorrel.”

* * *

 

            John yanked off his tie and threw it on Mycroft's sofa. Mycroft shot him a glare, but John was past caring. The day at court had exhausted him. Moriarty had looked his way every chance he got, a horrible smirk on his face. The rest of the time he was staring at Sherlock, but John couldn't see his expression. He wasn't sure which was worse.

            “I think that went well,” he said as Sherlock sat down, Mycroft standing near the bar. “I mean...there's no way they're going to let him off, is there?”

            Sherlock didn't answer. His partner's eyes were closed, fingertips pressed together.

            “Sherlock?”

            Mycroft cleared his throat. “Little brother.”

            “Can't you tell him, Mycroft?” Sherlock whispered.

            John's heart stopped. “What? Sherlock, what's happening?”

            “Sherlock, this change of plans was your idea. You must tell him. I'm certainly not going to.”

            Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up at John. It was deeply unsettling, partly because John was never taller than Sherlock, and partly because the grief in Sherlock's eyes was greater than anything he'd ever seen.

            John sat down heavily. “Sherlock...dear, what's wrong? You must tell me, you know.”

            Sherlock took John's hands in his; they were trembling now. John was starting to get very scared indeed.

            “John, Moriarty's going to be let off.”

            “What?”

            “It's what we want to happen.”

            “And...what? Say that again? We want this to happen?” John glanced between the brothers. “Funny, because I don't want that. Did 'we' discuss this when I was at work?” He was trying to keep his tone light and failing miserably, because Mycroft looked sympathetic now and Sherlock wasn't meeting his eyes and dear God something was wrong, something was horribly wrong...

            “This plan was conceived several weeks before your...alteration of relationship with Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “When I discovered you were lovers Sherlock insisted that the plan would still work, but that you did not need to be involved. As it stands now, however, many of our alternatives have been made impossible and the remaining option isn't tasteful. Still, Sherlock wants you to know, John, and I do believe that is for the best.”

            “Sherlock?” John repeated, ignoring Mycroft.

            Sherlock furrowed his brow. “John, you must listen, and you cannot interrupt, alright? Not until I have finished.”

            So John listened as his lover laid out his plan of self-destruction. To feed Moriarty information that could lead to a public disgrace. To let Moriarty go ahead with his plans feeling secure; let him get out of this sentence, let him pull Sherlock down. Make him a fraud.

            Sherlock stopped speaking.

            “Are you done?” John asked hoarsely.

            Sherlock avoided his eyes. “Yes.”

            “Good. Now, how the EVERLOVING FUCK did you ever think I'd agree to something like this?!”

            Sherlock bowed his head.

            “Sherlock, you love people knowing that you're smart. It's what you do! How can you justify going ahead with this?! The fallout will be incredible! You'll have to leave London, and where will that get you with Moriarty?”

            Sherlock glanced quickly towards Mycroft, who sighed. “John, the plan's not quite over with yet.”

            “And what's left to tell, then?” John asked, teeth clenched so tight the words came out in a hiss. “My part, I suppose?”

            “The grieving partner.”

            John's breath caught in his throat. “No.”

            “Moriarty will want Sherlock to kill himself,” Mycroft continued without remorse. “So Sherlock will, but we will plan a way to save his life. Moriarty will relax his guard allowing my people to arrest him; Sherlock will unravel Moriarty's Web from afar.”

            John stared at Sherlock. “You weren't going to tell me, were you?” he whispered. “Before we were together you were going to—to leave me? Let me think you were dead by suicide?” Sherlock didn't reply and John got to his feet. “Fuck this. Fuck you both. How could you ever think—?”

            “Your safety comes first, John!” Sherlock shouted. He had leapt up too, towering over John. “How could I live with myself if one of them found you when I was gone, hurt you to make me come back, or to tell where I was?”

            “And now what?” John shouted right back. “Now that we're lovers, you're going to tell me goodbye before you leave me behind? How kind of you. Damn you Sherlock, I was your friend before I was your partner. How do you think I would have coped without you there?”

            They were both silent for a second, breathing hard.

            Sherlock reached out hesitantly to touch John's face. “I knew it would be awful for you,” he admitted, “but I tried to tell myself that you thinking I was dead was better than me really being dead. Or you being...either is unacceptable.”

            “And what if you died on your black-ops mission?” John whispered, voice breaking as he put his hand over Sherlock's. “Would that be Mycroft's job? 'Sorry, Sherlock's dead for real this time, and he never explained his plan to your face'.”

            Sherlock winced. “That's why I'm telling you now. I'm trusting you, John, you have to keep this a secret.”

            John pulled Sherlock down and leaned his forehead against his, closing his eyes as he took a deep, desperate breath. “I don't want you to go.”

            “It's the only way.” Mycroft's voice was gruffer than usual, and John wondered if the Iceman was actually moved. “Moriarty won't rest until he's destroyed Sherlock completely. Once he believes that done, he won't suspect our next moves. You must keep up a strong act, John.”

            Still holding onto Sherlock, John cleared his throat. “No I won't, because I'm going with you.”

            “No.”

            “Yes, I am.”

            “No.” Sherlock's voice was fierce and low. “You cannot—John, I can't—”

            “You take me with you, or I will follow you,” John said simply. “And I know you, love, better than you know yourself. How long do you think it will be before I find you?”

            “You would risk your lover's safety, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft's voice was cold and hard as steel. “If Moriarty's people see you running around the world, will they not find that suspicious? They might discover that Sherlock is alive, and then what?”

            John turned, still calm, and faced Mycroft. “That would be terrible, Mycroft, and I would hate myself forever. But the best way to avoid that will be to send me with him. I know my limits, better than most men, and I will agree to this plan because I know you love your brother and will make sure he survives this, life and reputation intact.” Mycroft fidgeted. “But I will not stay at home and worry for months, years, because someone else decided what was best for me. That's not who I am.”

            Mycroft stared John down; John looked calmly back.

            “Very well.” Mycroft's eyebrows were drawn firmly together. “I will make preliminary arrangements. You will be told very little, John, to make your acting more natural. Will you agree to that?”

            “Yes.”

            “You will not be in control. You're not a man who surrenders that easily.”

            “Will Sherlock be in control?” John smiled. “If so, I'm not worried. I trust my partner.”

            Sherlock drew John back, holding him against his chest. “I believe John has found the better solution, Mycroft. This changes little, you know.”

            “Yes, although transportation for two will be more difficult.”

            “Don't worry about that,” John said with a grin. “I'll just sit on his lap.”

* * *

 

            When they reached home John pulled Sherlock into his arms and held him close. “You were going to leave me,” he whispered.

            “I'm sorry,” Sherlock whispered. “I wanted—well, when this plan was made, I thought you wouldn't care.”

            “Wouldn't care? Of course—Sher, dear, I always cared. Always.”

            “As did I, John.” Sherlock pulled away, looking intently into his eyes. “John, I thought this would keep you safe.”

            “If it's a choice between you and safety...love, there's no choice at all.”

            Sherlock rested his chin on John's head. “The other Holmes warned me about this.”

            “Did he?” John was surprised—Sherlock rarely brought up the Night.

            “Yes. He and his Watson had defeated Moriarty, but...well, I changed my mind after I spoke to him. After I...after we...”

            “Yes, alright.” John buried his face in Sherlock's chest. “Just promise me something.”

            “What?”

            “Don't make this kind of decision without me again. Please, dear, I can't bear thinking we're safe, that we've got no secrets and then find out something like this.”

            “I promise.”

* * *

 

            The next day in the courtroom, John swore out loud when he heard the verdict. Making an obvious show of his outrage, he stormed outside, calling Sherlock immediately. “Not guilty! The bastard's not guilty! Sherlock, you know what that means—Sherlock?” Furiously, he shoved the phone back into his pocket and walked up the street.

            A few blocks later, satisfied that he'd slipped any tail, he sent a quick text.

            Think it worked—JW.

            An almost immediate response: Good. Moriarty en route. Go to a bar and text Lestrade. He'll provide good cover.—SH.

            Be careful love—JW.

            This will be over soon, my dear John. I promise—SH.

 

[1] Quote from ‘The Reichenbach Fall’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who've read my story By Any Name know that the idea John suggests is a favourite idea of mine (because seriously, lover, friend or colleague, BBC Sherlock would never have left John behind if he could avoid it)...*takes deep breath* but that may or may not be what's happening here.  
> I will post another chapter this Friday, and the third will be up Sunday.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	21. Oh (pt.2 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan goes off well...until it doesn't.

            Running handcuffed through the street wasn't nearly as comical as it sounded, especially when the entirety of NSY was after you (with the exception of one devoted DI who John still thought should be let in on the entire plan)and the person you were handcuffed to was several inches taller, mostly in the legs.

            John had plenty of reasons to curse Moriarty—kidnapped children, really? If he had to blame them for something, that was truly the worst he could do—but he was too winded from running to lay out proper damnations. They were running roughly in the direction of Kitty Riley's flat: there, Sherlock assured him, Moriarty would be hiding under a fake name. John knew they had to get there as quickly as possible, that Sherlock's life depended on him keeping one step ahead of Moriarty, but he needed a rest.

            “Sherlock,” he panted.

            Without a word Sherlock slowed, grabbing hold of John and tucking them into a doorway. John leaned against the detective, his heart rate refusing to slow.

            “We can spare a few moments,” Sherlock whispered, his free hand reaching up to stroke John's hair. “Miss Riley won't be home for another half an hour, and we need her...assistance.”

            “You mean we need her to act like the gullible, greedy bitch that she is.”

            “Precisely.” The dim light from the street lamps still showed the fond expression on Sherlock's face. “You've always had a way with words, Doctor.”

            “Not like you don't, Detective.” John tucked his head against Sherlock, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It wouldn't be much longer until he would have to pretend that this precious, wonderful heart had ceased to beat. He shuddered. Mycroft meant well with his acting classes, but he didn't understand that the horror John felt at the mere idea of Sherlock being dead would be enough to convince the casual observer of his pain.

            “John?”

            “Nothing.” John wished his hands were free, but they couldn't spare the lock-picking time. “I'm just...I want this over.”

            “So do I. Don't worry, it will be.”

* * *

 

            John nearly shot Moriarty on sight. He didn't have his gun, which would have made that difficult, but that was merely a detail.

            The plan was perfect, of course. Mycroft's people were going to have a difficult job proving that 'Richard Brook'—Rich Brook, Reichenbach, aren't you so clever Jim—wasn't real, but the damage done to Sherlock's reputation was going to be harder still. Even though this was Sherlock and Mycroft's plan (though Moriarty didn't know it yet), John could see the pain in Sherlock's face as Kitty gloated.

            Still, this meant they were one step closer to the end of all this. And the beginning of...well, what was coming next?

John thought about it: fake names, new identities, spending ages undercover to destroy Moriarty. It sounded sort of fun, but John wished he'd been in on the plan from the beginning, that saving Sherlock's life didn't mean destroying their own, perhaps forever if they didn't manage to completely wipe out the Web.

            _It's done now. Let it be. We'll get through this._

            Sherlock had left to find Molly. Molly, with Mike's help (now that was a couple John hadn't seen coming) were going to smuggle a body nearly perfectly Sherlock's match out of Bart's and into an abandoned house not far from the Study in Pink house. Sherlock was going to call Moriarty there, Moriarty would take the bait and tell Sherlock to commit suicide for the price of restoring his name, and Sherlock would set the house on fire, disappearing through a trapdoor into a cellar Mike had built on a weekend off.

            It was melodramatic and messy, so of course that part of the plan was Sherlock's.

            John hated the idea deeply, but he wasn't supposed to pass judgement. His job was to appear just too late at the house, and in a grief-stricken rage try to force his way in. Greg would be on the scene as a first responder, and he would pull John back from the flames and drag him back to Baker Street. There, John would tell them him and Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock wasn't dead, Mrs. Hudson would go stay with her brother-in-law (who was not a murderer, a lovely man with five children in Florida) and Greg would resign (temporarily) and go about his days with his income quietly supplied by Mycroft, though ostensibly gotten through music.

            John stood on the street where Sherlock had left him, waiting five minutes before dialling for a cab. He nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone rang. A familiar number, though he couldn't quite place whose. He answered hesitantly.

            “Hello?”

            “John?”

            John grit his teeth hard. “I'm not interested in talking with you, Donovan.”

            “Hear me out, please! Something's wrong, I've been looking through the evidence for the case—”

            “And Sherlock didn't do it? What a surprise. Don't bother with apologies, we're going to prove it if it's the last thing I do.”

            “John, there's some kind of plan here.”

            John froze. Sally being smart wasn't part of the plan. She was meant to be the police officer who hated Sherlock enough to set things in motion. That was all.

            “I don't like this. Can I see you?”

            “Seeing as I'm currently a fugitive, I don't think that's a good idea.”

            “Please, John. If I'm wrong, we can stop this for Sherlock. Come to my place, it's on Alder Road. We can talk it out.”

            John should have hesitated. He should go to the Diogenes Club to stage his confrontation with Mycroft, then on to Bart's with Sherlock. But if Sally had caught on, she had to be dealt with.       

            “Alright.”

            “Thank you.” The relief in Sally's voice was immense. “I'll see you soon.”

            John hung up and started to dial for a cab again. Distracted by the bright screen and his worries about Donovan—they hadn't thought about her, what were they going to do?—he didn't hear the near-silent footsteps behind him.

            He certainly didn't hear the quiet swish of a baton coming down on his head.

* * *

 

            Sherlock paced around the lab, Molly watching him and twisting her hands. The body was ready to be moved, Mike was waiting outside with his car. John should be here by now.

            Where the hell was he?

            Sherlock called John again—twenty seven times, but who was counting—and listened to it ring, his heart pounding in his chest. Nothing. Still nothing.

            “Have you heard from Mycroft?” Molly asked hesitantly. “Maybe something came up?”

            “I haven't heard from him,” Sherlock said curtly. “My phone hasn't rung in the last two hours. Not since I left John.” He steepled his fingers. This part of the plan wasn't totally necessary—he'd just wanted to say goodbye to John. In order to make the ruse look likely, John had to stay behind for the funeral and burial—at least a week. It wasn't that long, but it would be the longest he'd been apart from John in their entire time of knowing each other, and seven times as long as they'd been apart since they'd gotten together.

            Perhaps Mycroft wanted to make a point; that this way of doing the plan was still going to hurt, and it was much more dangerous. John must be with Mycroft, and not being allowed to contact him. That was all.

            “Sherlock?” Molly's eyes were worried. “What do you want to do?”

            Sherlock looked back at her; the one person he'd ever counted on absolutely, the one that Moriarty had managed to overlook. Molly would follow him no matter what; there was something humbling about that, considering he'd never given her anything in return. He made a mental note to do better in future—perhaps making sure that Mike's investments paid off would be a start. She'd always wanted a nice house with a garden.

            “We've got to go.”

            The three of them, plus a dead body in one of Sherlock's old coats, left St. Bart's.

            John stayed there, though as he was still unconscious, he didn't know it yet.

* * *

 

            With Molly's help, Sherlock positioned the dead body near the window and draped the dusty curtains over it. Moriarty wouldn't come into this room, but it would be the first place Sherlock would run to, if this building were really on fire. Finding the body here, burned beyond recognition and identified tearfully by John, would raise little suspicion.

            Mike was in the cellar, checking the trap door, raising it and lowering it to make sure that it would be easy to lift no matter how tired or injured Sherlock might be. He didn't expect Moriarty to become physical, of course, but there was always that possibility. There could be some damage from the fire, as well.

            Sherlock's phone went off in the darkness, startling them all. Sherlock answered without looking at the Caller ID.

            “John?”

            “No, Sherlock.” Mycroft's voice was sharp with alarm. “I was calling to inquire why the good doctor abandoned the plan of joining me here. I thought he went with you.”

            Sherlock's whole body went cold. He raised his arm and checked the time listlessly. 5 AM. 0500 hours, as John put it, or oh-Christ-hundred-hours when they were up too late.

            John was supposed to have gone to the Diogenes Club at midnight.

            Four hours overdue.

            “Sherlock?”

            “Find him.” Sherlock didn't recognize his own voice; pleading and soft. “Brother, please...”

            “I'll look straight away. Damn him, why didn't he take the tracker when I offered?”

            Sherlock's phone buzzed in his hand. “Mycroft, someone else is calling—I don't recognize the number.”

            “Answer it. Call me when there's news.”

            Molly was texting frantically—trying to reach John, obviously.

            Sherlock hung up on Mycroft and answered the call.

            “Hello?”

            “Sherlock, you have to hurry—I've done something terrible!”

            “Donovan?” Sherlock was shocked by the detective's tone. She was clearly crying.

            “This is all my fault, John's in danger.”

            “What have you done, Sally?” Sherlock sounded psychopathically calm, even to himself. “Sally, _what have you done_?”

            The story came out in broken phrases, combined with apologies and sobs. Sherlock barely heard half of it; he was too busy berating himself. Of course Moriarty would have chosen a case with children involved as his final touch—Donovan came from an abusive family, and she'd always had a soft spot for children. Of course Sally would have jumped at the chance to destroy him—she'd hated him from the first time they'd met, when he'd flirted with her for a chance to get into a crime scene, then cut her cold once Lestrade saw his talents and allowed him to consult. Of course Sally would believe 'Richard Brook', who hated Sherlock just as much and wanted to bring him down.

            “I n-never meant to hurt John!” Sally sobbed. “Never, I just wanted to show you for what you were, and why not have people think you were a fraud in the bargain?”

            “Sally,” Sherlock said, and he didn't know how he was still so calm, how he could sound so cold. “Sally, where is John?”

            “I don't know, but I know that Rich—that M-Moriarty is going to hurt him. The little boy woke up, and he told us about the man in the suit who showed them pictures of you and told them to scream. He identified him as Brook.”

            “And how do you know John's in danger?” Iceman, Moriarty had called Mycroft. Perhaps that ran in families.

            “Because I just called Brook, to tell him that I knew what he was doing and—” Sally choked. “He thanked me, he said that I'd helped him to get right to the heart of the matter, and that he'd take care of John. And I know that means—”

            “Yes.” _I'll burn the heart out of you_ ; how could he have been so stupid? “Where is John, Sally?”

            “I don't know!”

            Sherlock's phone buzzed again, and he pulled the phone away from his ear, and looked at the text message.

            Rooftop. St. Bart's. Come and play.—A.

            A.

            Anonymous. Moriarty.

            _John._

           

* * *

 

            John woke with a groan. He sat up gingerly, putting a hand to his head. It was sore, dried blood coming away onto his fingers. He was cold, his whole body stiff, though whether that part was from temperature or from lying on the concrete he couldn't tell.

            The wind was coming up, and the roofs of the neighbouring buildings were coming clearer in the early dawn light.

            Wait.

            Roofs?

            John got to his feet shakily, looking around with growing dread. He was on the roof of an all-too familiar building. He and Mike had come up here to smoke sometimes, in brash defiance of their teachers, their own _memento mori_.

            What on earth was he doing on the roof of St. Bart's hospital?

            “Hello, Johnny boy.”

            John whirled. Moriarty stood there, John’s gun in his hand and a lazy, satisfied smirk on his smug face.

            “Nice of you to join me at the end of the book.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't...kill me?   
> If you kill me you won't get the end.   
> Special thanks to NovaNara, who reminded me of my original plan for Sally.   
> See you Sunday!   
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	22. Ew (pt. 3 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reichenbach conclusion. Warning for character death (though if you know me by now you'll probably guess it isn't someone anyone cares about.

            Mike was driving as quickly as he could, Molly shouting in the backseat, switching between her phone and Sherlock's as she tried to coordinate with Mycroft and Greg. Sherlock sat motionless in the passenger seat, eyes fixed straight ahead. They were going to save John—no, he was going to save John. That was all there was to it.

* * *

 

            John stared at Moriarty. He didn't put up his hands; there was no need. Moriarty knew he wouldn't move.

            “How long have you known?” John asked, his face tense.

            Moriarty chuckled. “Known about what? Your fuckbuddy's little plan to make me dance to his tune, to make me think I'd won then bang! Snatch the game away?”

            John swallowed hard. The sun was coming up now, and he could see that they were alone on the rooftop. Not that that was really much help; his gun, after all, was in Moriarty's hand, and even his army training was unlikely to save him if he attacked Moriarty head on. Best to play along.

            Moriarty sighed, looking almost gloomy. “I've known for about...oh, I'd say a month, now? Miss Donovan's an excellent spy. Tell her I'm trying to get rid of Sherlock and she's loyal as anything. I probably could have told her I was really Moriarty and not 'Rich Brook'...I doubt she would have cared.”

            “And how did she know? We've never discussed it  in front of her.”

            “No, but you did discuss it with Greg Lestrade. And at Scotland Yard, too. Dear me, Dr. Watson, dear me!”

            John swallowed his nausea. It had been his idea to include Greg, his insistence that the DI was their friend and he deserved to know at least part of the plan. They'd told him late at night, near one in the morning. He had thought Donovan had left with Anderson. His mistake.

            “Anyways, once I knew that, I decided to keep dancing!” Moriarty did a strange little hop-skip, the gun rock-steady in his hand. “Let you make your little plans—quite good, I must say. Though not quite as good as mine.”

            “And what was yours?” John asked, squaring his shoulders even as his heart sank. He had a strange feeling he knew what was coming; the feeling that had pressed on him for months now, that they'd been missing something obvious.

            “Well, what my plan has been from the beginning, Johnny!” Moriarty smiled brightly. “Come on, walk with me.”

            He stepped forward and grabbed hold of John, yanking him by his bad shoulder towards the edge of the roof. Moriarty peered down; John did as well. There were a few people walking around even this early, and he briefly contemplated calling for help.

            “Don't do it, John,” Moriarty whispered. “Why bother? You'll be down there soon enough.”

            John tensed, yanking himself away from Moriarty. To his surprise, Moriarty let him do it, let John step away until they were several feet apart.

            “So what? You're going to shoot me, and...throw me over? Seems a bit dull, for you. And messy.”

            Moriarty laughed. “Oh pet, you being dead, Sherlock seeing you broken and bloody, that's certainly part of the final number. How's your precious detective going to deal when you're gone, hmm? I do think that'll destroy him—burn him out, as they say.”

            John shuddered. That was it, that was the piece they hadn't considered. “It was me,” he whispered. “This whole time, you've been targeting me.”

            “And he gets it!” Moriarty put the gun inside his coat and clapped. “Bravo, Johnny! I certainly did think about destroying Sherlock and having him kill himself—that would have been the worst ending for him, once upon a time. My first plan, you know, so I'm not surprised that Sherlock was able to deduce that.”  He took a step closer to John. “But you see it now, don't you? The pool, Miss Adler, even this whole Reichenbach affair—I was doing my best to make him suffer through _you_.”

            “We weren't together from the start,” John whispered.

            Moriarty shrugged. “It was inevitable, really. You crave danger, he craved an audience. Throw in a little UST—the Virgin learning how bodies worked, wish my cameras didn't break in your bedroom, I would have loved to see that! Two junkies choosing to fuck each other instead of fucking each other over, isn't that how your story has gone?”

            Bile was coming up in John's throat. “I love him.”

            “Oh, of course you do,” Moriarty crooned. “You do, and that's the best part! You'd do anything for him, and that's you're going to do now!”

            “Kill myself?” John croaked.

            “Well, yes, that's the idea.” Moriarty shrugged, his eyes going cold. “It's the personal touch, you see. Coming from me it would just be an act of war—this? This is an act of love, desperate, painful love! It will haunt him forever. I'm really going to enjoy watching that. Shame you won't see it.”

            John shook his head. “No.”

            Moriarty raised his eyebrow. “No?”

            “No, you bastard. I won't leave him, not willingly. I promised.” John slipped into a fighting stance. “You want me dead? You kill me.” Maybe, just maybe he had a chance. If he could push Moriarty off the side…

            Moriarty sighed. “I knew you were going to be difficult. Well, time to pull out the big guns.” Surprisingly, he didn’t take out his gun.

John raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

Moriarty giggled. "Oh, the big guns aren't here. Well, one of them's...somewhere around here, telling you exactly where would be cheating. There's one near Scotland Yard as well, and one just across from your flat. Big is a relative term, but I'd say they're guns you need to worry about."

John went cold. "What do you mean?"

"Well I had to have some kind of insurance, pet. To make sure you couldn't win no matter how lucky you got." Moriarty's eyes went dead, just for a flash of a second, and John flinched. "So here's how this works—if you don't jump, fine. You live. But your family dies."

The world went cold. "Sherlock."

Moriarty nodded. "He should be here soon; Donovan will have given into her guilt. But not just Sherlock."

"Mrs. Hudson. Greg."

"Yes." Moriarty smiled. "I really should have given you more credit, John. Really I should have; you're quite clever when you want to be. I suppose it doesn't really matter, though. You'd better jump."

John seized Moriarty by the lapels, holding him close to the edge, heart racing with panic. "And if I throw you off?"

Moriarty was infuriatingly calm for someone who was inches away from plummeting to their death. "What, you think my goons will stop shooting just because I'm dead? You've clearly never met Seb. The others are loyal enough to my cash—they'll finish the job. Doesn't matter, really. Would you really trade one for the other two?"

"Shut up!" John yanked Moriarty back, releasing him and beginning to pace. "What do you want?"

Moriarty sneered at him, all hilarity gone from his face. "I want you to suffer, John Watson. I want Sherlock Holmes to suffer. You let him think he could be happy with anyone other than me, and he believed it."

John recoiled. "You're in love with him?"

"I AM HIM!" Moriarty's howl split the morning quiet. "He is me, I am him—we're two freaks against the entire world, dancing in the same hellfire! He should never have thought about anyone else. But you, you were the player I didn't anticipate. The third wheel. We were supposed to destroy each other, Watson. Now I'll watch you destroy him."

The sound of a speeding car drew John's attention. Mike's old car was coming down the road. John's breath caught in his throat. When he turned back it was a second too late; Moriarty had the gun drawn now.

"Time to make a choice, Captain," Moriarty's voice was back to its regular sing song. "Your life, or your family's?"

John glared at the man, his eyes desperate with pain. His hands shook as he turned his back to Moriarty and walked towards the edge of the roof.

"There we are, good pet."

John glanced over his shoulder and watched Moriarty take out a phone. He tossed it to John, who caught it with nearly-numb fingers.

"Call him. Stop him from going inside."

John looked down; Sherlock had gotten out of the car and was running full tilt towards St. Bart's. Hands shaking John dialed Sherlock's number, watched as his lover stopped in his tracks and whipped out his phone.

_"John!"_

"Sherlock, stop moving!"

Sherlock looked around wildly. _"Where are you, John?"_

"Stay still!" John said urgently, his eyes flicking between Sherlock and the surrounding buildings, searching desperately for a sign of the sniper. If he could just protect Sherlock...there were a thousand words between them, a thousand memories that even Moriarty knew nothing for. Maybe he could find a way to warn him.

John felt the gun press into his back.

"I'm up on the roof," he whispered. He saw Sherlock look up, could almost make out the confused horror on his face.

_"Moriarty?"_

"Behind me," John replied, voice trying not to shake. "He has a gun."

_"What does he want?"_

"He wants me to jump. And he wants you to watch."

_"No. No, John, don't! Moriarty, I swear to God!"_

"How dull Sherlock, you actually believe in God! And here I thought your decay was only in the matter of the Doctor!" Moriarty was right at John's ear, almost crooning into the phone. "I'll shut up, though, this is supposed to be your and John's moment."

"John!" Sherlock's voice broke something in John; deeper than his heart, down into the very core of who he was. He never wanted Sherlock to sound like that, to feel that broken. _He's going to feel that way all the time when you're gone_ , the voice in his head whispered knowingly, sounding horribly like his father. _You never should have loved him, you never should have let him feel what happiness was if you were going to just let him down._

"Sherlock, I don't have a choice."

_"Yes, you do! Fight, John, please!"_

"I can't," John choked. "I can't, because he's got you."

_"No he doesn't!"_

"Yes he does," John whispered. "He has snipers."

Sherlock didn't answer for a moment.

_"Me."_

"Not just you."

_“Mrs. Hudson."_

"Not just her."

_"Lestrade."_

"Sherlock, you're all going to die if I don't." Moriarty was laughing softly in the ear without a phone pressed frantically against it, but John could barely hear him. “I can’t—dear, I can’t do that.”

“ _We’ll figure something out!”_

            “There’s no time, love,” John whispered. “And you know it.” With his last ounce of defiance, he pulled the phone away from his ear and turned to Moriarty with a glare. “Can you give us a moment, please?”

            Moriarty backed off with a smirk. “Of course. Take all the time you need. Although my marksmen do have itchy trigger fingers…maybe not too long.” He walked until he stood ten feet from John, and then pointedly put his fingers in his ears.

            Sherlock was gasping into the phone when John turned back to it, crying softly. John felt tears run down his own face as he looked down, shuddering. He was about to die. Not from a wound or a charge, but from stepping off a building. Falling. Hitting the ground in front of the man he loved. At least his death might spare the others from a bullet, but since when did Moriarty tell the truth?

            Moriarty coughed loudly, and John snapped out of it. He didn’t have much time here. He had to make it count for Sherlock.

            “Listen to me very carefully, dear,” he said, slowly and calmly. “This is not your fault. This is my choice, and if I could make another one I would, but I can’t, so please…try to forgive me? I love you so much, Sherlock.” John swallowed hard. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and loving you was the best adventure I’ve ever had. And I’m sure I’ll see you again someday, somewhere. Just remember that no matter what, as long as part of me exists I will love you, alright? Even if that’s only in your memories.”

            _“John, please_. _”_ Sherlock was sobbing now. _“Don’t go.”_

            John shook his head, not bothering to wipe his tears. “Give my love to everyone. Goodbye, Sherlock.”

            He hung up; what was the point of going on? There’d never been enough time to say everything to Sherlock.

            Tossing the phone away, John stepped up on the ledge. He was going to step forward looking straight ahead, back straight and head held high. Dying as a soldier, because even now he didn’t know how to die as a lover.

            John closed his eyes, started to take a step—

            And a shot rang out.

            John’s eyes snapped open, stumbling backwards, heel catching on the ledge but wait, who was shooting?

            He spun around just in time to see Moriarty fall to the ground, slumping over to reveal a disgusting hole in the back of his head. A tall man with pale blonde hair stood near the door, a gun raised. John stared back at him.

            “Who are you?”

            “MI6,” the man replied. “Formerly.”

            “How did you—the snipers!”

            “Taken care of while you were talking,” The man answered.

            John’s head swam, and he stumbled.

The shooter stepped forward. “You need to get down, Dr. Watson. Sherlock Holmes must be worried. You don’t really need to worry about the details right now, do you?” His tone was considerate, but John didn’t move. If this was a trap…

            The man sighed. “I was sent by an interested government party, who’s been keeping track of both Sherlock Holmes and you for some time now, worried for your safety. You’ve got some very avid readers, Dr. Watson.”

            “Who?”

            “Does it matter?” The other man shook his head. “Go down, Dr. Watson. It’s over, I swear.”

            John considered him for a moment. “You saved my life,” he said hoarsely, “I think you can call me John.”

            The shooter grinned. “James,” he replied.

            John turned back to the street, where Sherlock was staring up. John gave him a thumbs up, and his heart broke again when Sherlock collapsed, dropping to his knees.

            John whirled again, wanting to thank James, but to his surprise the man was already gone. He walked slowly towards the door, stopping only for a second to bend down and check Moriarty’s pulse. Gone. Done. It was strange to see the consulting criminal so still so…so human, despite his best efforts.

            The next few moments were a blur, but John must have climbed down the stairs, for the next thing he knew he was running out of the front door of St. Bart’s and into Sherlock’s arms, being kissed, then shaken within an inch of his life, then kissed again, being crushed by Sherlock, ignoring explanations in favour of just holding on. They could do that, he realized in a daze, they could take their time, because there was the rest of their lives to say everything else. For now, the only thing John wanted to say was “I love you,” and he said it over and over again,  because that phone call had nearly been the last chance.

            It was strangely, wonderfully perfect, then, that all Sherlock wanted to say back was “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was difficult to write, but there! Reichenbach's dealt with.  
> Hope you all enjoyed! This Wednesday's update may be a bit short (I won't have a lot of time for writing because I've been working on this), but we'll be back to regular length next week.  
> Cheers,   
> Acme


	23. Victorian Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some headcanons I've developed for the Victorian era. If anyone wants me to expand on any of them, let me know!  
> Warnings for minor character death and some angst.

            Holmes has a letter tucked away among his commonplace books that is for Watson’s eyes alone. He truly hopes that Watson will never read it; his husband has already had to lose him once, but at least he’ll have a written record of how much he loves him.

* * *

 

            The one time they come close to getting caught, it’s Charles Augustus Milverton. He makes an offhand remark while discussing their client’s bill. Milverton doesn’t make it home that night; a protective older brother deals with the political fallout from disposing of Milverton too soon.

* * *

 

            In the village close to where they retire, most of the inhabitants have accepted the fact that the odd men in the cottage are a bit…different. They don’t particularly care; Holmes’ honey is good, Watson’s generous with his time and his vegetables, and really, they’re doing no harm.

* * *

 

            Though he never talks about, Watson sometimes wishes he could have taken Holmes’ name. Then Holmes will say ‘Watson’ with the same tenderness he uses in the rare moments he says ‘John’, and he’ll change his mind.

_Watson_

Twenty years after Watson returned from the war, Holmes finds William Murray, the orderly who saved his life. Murray brings his son with him, named for the bravest and finest doctor he’s ever known. John Murray doesn’t understand why the Doctor cries.

* * *

 

Watson does write poetry sometimes, very badly. There was one very good piece, written at three in the morning in frustration as he tried to sort out his love for his dead wife and his love for his living husband. Entitled simply ‘Two Halves’, it tells the story of a man who was never made to choose and therefore got both his heart’s desires, yet fears he deserves neither.

* * *

 

            Watson takes a bullet for Holmes not long before they retire. Holmes was apoplectic, but Watson was secretly glad; now his leg has reason to twinge in the cold weather, and he still has his husband to distract him from the pain with soft music.

_Holmes_

            Holmes doesn’t know the word ‘demisexual’; he thinks asexuality is a plant trait, not a human one, and he considered himself a broken man for a long time. In the end he didn’t need the words to explain things; he got Watson instead.

* * *

 

            Holmes saw Irene Adler Norton one other time; it was during his time abroad after the Fall. In disguise as a fireman, he saved her daughter, Rose Norton from a house fire. Irene recognized him, told him sharply to go home, and thanked him. A month later, Holmes sent her a marked copy of the Strand with Watson’s story, _The Empty House._

* * *

 

            Holmes thought telling Watson how he felt would be the most terrifying thing he’d ever done. Then he stood outside the door to the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes Club for three hours _shaking_. Mycroft eventually found him there, soothed him through the panic attack, and promised his support for their relationship, come what may.

_Mystrade_

            With the police force so new, any help was welcome, particularly help that did not demand credit or compensation. Thus, when Sherlock Holmes requested to consult on cases, he needed no help from Mycroft Holmes; which, coincidentally, meant that Lestrade didn’t encounter the older Holmes until Holmes and Watson were married.

_Mycroft_

            Mycroft had always suspected his little brother was different. Removed as he was from the idea of love and romance, particularly with his size, he never even considered that he was different in the same way.

_Lestrade_

            Lestrade was happily married (to a woman who was mistress to six different men) with one daughter (who moved to Scotland to get married and rarely came to visit due to financial difficulties though she did write to her father faithfully), and never once thought that there might be another kind of happiness.

 

_Moriarty_

            Moriarty was Holmes’ equal in one important way; he never fully understood that the doctor loved the detective just as fiercely.

_Mary_

            Mary came to love Sherlock—platonically, closer to a brother than a friend. She even managed to forgive him for loving John, and allowed them time alone. After all, she trusted her husband. (Watson never disappointed her).

* * *

 

            When their daughter Martha died at three months from the influenza that swept the city, Mary was almost relieved when she woke up with a deep ache in her bones as well as her heart.

* * *

 

            Mary and Martha’s graves are well-tended by her widower as well as his husband. Her spirit is well aware of their love, and feels pure relief that neither man is alone.

_Mrs. Hudson_

            Martha Hudson’s maiden name was Meadows. Though she doesn’t realize it, so was Kitty’s grandmother. They were sisters. Kitty has inherited the family spirit, acceptance of odd living conditions and her great-aunt’s blue eyes.

* * *

 

            In her eyes, Mrs. Hudson has three sons (two who live with her and one who rarely comes home). All three men privately think the same.

* * *

 

            The day that Watson told her about his love for Holmes he was on morphine from a stabbing, and he doesn’t remember. Mrs. Hudson immediately hunted down the detective and demanded he take care of her boy. She also begins a rumour that gives Holmes a mistress, which few believe but it gives Watson a good laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will likely write a modern set of these in the future, but I just didn't have the time this week, sorry. Next week we'll have another Victorian chapter, and the following week we'll be back to modernity with another arc...I've got someone to introduce you all to...  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	24. Happiness Unforeseen (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, for once, fears are unfounded, and our Victorian family welcomes a new member.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not apologize and will never apologize for the gratuitous fluff that follows.

             In a little house in the quiet part of London, a woman was screaming.

            This was at the encouragement of her doctor, who was a firm believer that pain was soothed by expression.

            (If, subconsciously, he was attempting to change the outcome, trying to forget the memory of another woman, smiling bravely through this pain and not uttering a whimper, he didn't realize).

            The woman's hair was damp, her throat hoarse. It had been hours now, long hours of pain with nothing to be done, nothing to do. The woman had experienced helpless pain before, and the memories this agony triggered were damning her anticipation, her enjoyment of knowing that the months of waiting were at last at an end.

            The doctor saw her sorrow, and ran a hand through her hair. Like any father, blood or not, it killed him to see his child in pain, but there was little to be done.

            "Think of the child," he urged her. "Think of your husband."

            And the woman did, and screeched louder, in defiance of the past, of the horrible dark moments where she'd known, not thought, _known_ that she would never have this kind of hope.

            The doctor put his hand on her forehead, counting the seconds between her screams, and hoped this would soon be over.

* * *

 

            Downstairs in the kitchen, their husbands were sitting silently at the table. The maid had been shooed away by the formidable guest, who'd sat down next to the woman's husband seconds after the doctor had gone upstairs. The men sat in silence, both trying not to wince at every fresh scream. Both failing.

            The doctor's husband worried for the woman who was the closest thing to a child he'd ever known, and he worried for the doctor. Since his own loss, assisting with childbirth had been unspeakably difficult for him. His husband knew this time was personal, knew this was hard, and worried desperately, fearing the consequences were something to go wrong.

            The woman's husband, by far the most innocent of the four, was wracked with remorse for the pain he was putting his wife through. She'd wanted this as much as he, but he wasn't the one upstairs, he wasn't the one who was risking everything to bring a child into the world. Could he ever make it up to her? Only, he figured, by being the best father he could be, and that wasn't an easy thought, having never known a father.

            The doctor's husband reached out to the woman's husband as a long scream echoed down the stairs and took his hand. "It will be over soon, and the rest will begin," he said soothingly.

            White-knuckled, the woman's husband clutched back. Perhaps he had known something of a father.

* * *

 

            Not ten minutes later, Watson came downstairs, his legs threatening to give out from the peculiar combination of joy and exhaustion that accompanied every delivery.

            Hopkins and Holmes were sitting at the table, Hopkins white as chalk, Holmes' shoulders tense. They both looked up as he entered.

            Watson smiled. "You've got a healthy son, Stanley Hopkins. Would you like to see him?"

            Hopkins let out a cry of joy, leapt up, danced about the room, then hugged Holmes and Watson in quick succession. "Healthy! The baby's healthy! Kitty?" he asked, suddenly anxious.

            "She's doing beautifully," Watson said with no small amount of relief. The wild-eyed, delighted young woman upstairs was miles from the shadow of his wife after giving birth to their daughter. "Come on up, then, so you can meet your son, and see about getting your wife some rest."

            "Of course, of course," Hopkins babbled. He dashed up the stairs. Watson watched him with gentle eyes.

            Holmes placed a hand on his shoulder, and Watson covered it with his own. "I'm alright," he whispered, knowing his husband's worry. "She is going to be alright, the baby is well, and...it's not like the last time."

            "I am so glad," Holmes murmured. "Let's go meet this baby, shall we?"

            The two went up the stairs together. Hopkins was lying on the bed, cradling his wife and child close, staring at his son with a tenderness that brought tears to Watson's eyes. The boy—for really, he would always be the young boy detective hanging on Holmes' every word and stumbling over praise when he brought Kitty flowers—seemed charged with joy, his face determined and gentle at the same time.

            Kitty was beaming, for once all traces of pain gone from her eyes as she held her son. "Isn't he beautiful?" she whispered.

            "Quite frankly, the most beautiful child I've ever seen," Holmes replied, voice deep with emotion. Watson saw tears sparkling in his husband's eyes. "You did a fine job, Kitty."

            "Stan helped," Kitty said with a naughty look at her husband, who blushed to the tips of his ears.

            Watson shook his head. "Have you decided on a name?"

            Kitty smiled. "Well, Stan, did we?"

            "You can have the order you like," Stan replied, kissing her forehead. "I suppose it does sound a bit better."

            "Either way it's a fine name," Kitty agreed.

            "What is it?" Holmes asked with no small amount of impatience.

            Kitty beckoned them over, and once Watson was close enough she carefully held the bundle of blankets out to him. "This is William John Hopkins," she said. "I thought we'd call him Billy."

            Watson swallowed hard as he cradled the baby close. Quiet as anything, Billy blinked up at him, big blue eyes like his mother's assessing this new face. 'Hello, Billy," Watson said, voice thick. "Welcome to this world." He rocked the child for a moment. "Shall I introduce you to your other namesake?"

            Watson held the bundle out to a weeping William Sherlock Holmes, who took it reverently. The detective was speechless as he expertly (because of course information on how to care for infants was now relevant in his brain attic) cradled Billy against his shoulder, closing his eyes. "Thank you, Kitty."

            "Oh, Father, please don't cry," Kitty said, and she sounded distressed. "I didn't mean—"

            "He's happy, sweetheart," Watson said gently. "You haven't made him sad."

            "Are you sure, Father?" Kitty asked him. Watson wondered briefly how he'd grown so used to her calling them that, how easily he could tell which one she was addressing, despite them sharing the title.

            "I'm sure, Kitty." Watson clasped her hand in his. "You've made him happy."

            "Of course you have," Holmes croaked. He placed the baby back in Kitty's arms. "You've done me a great honour."

            "We haven't done anything you didn't deserve, the both of you," Hopkins replied. "Thank you, for everything."

           Watson heard the wistfulness in the lad's tone, but didn't quite understand. 

           "You're welcome, son," Holmes replied, because he did. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place about a year or so after Kitty and Stan get married. Just for the record, she still calls them 'Uncle' in public, but as far as Kitty's concerned Holmes and Watson are her fathers.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	25. Infenestration, Adfenestration, Fenestration? (part I of 4) (BBC arc)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get a surprise visitor, a new case, and a broken window (not quite in that order).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness of the chapter, I was away and didn't have time to finish editing last night. Hopefully this modern multi-parter makes up for it!

Without question, John's life started going odd again the moment a girl came crashing through the front window.

He and Sherlock were sitting and having a nice, quiet, late supper. Their blogs were updated, their phones turned off, and there was every indication that this was going to be one of the nights they spent making love together and falling asleep without nightmares.

Then there was a crash of glass, a scream, and there was a girl in the room.

John bolted to his feet, while Sherlock merely stared in shock.

The girl was lying on the ground groaning, glass in her curly brown hair and streaks of blood marring her dark skin. She was still conscious, but the nasty looking twist to her ankle told John at a glance that she wouldn't be running away. Which was grand, because he wasn't exactly going to let her get away without explaining two things. One, how she'd even gotten as high as the window of a first floor, and two, why she'd done it in the first place.

Careful to avoid stepping on glass (and really, Sherlock would probably give him hell for being in bare feet but it was a hot August night and he had no reason to expect shards of window to be an obstacle) John picked his way to the girl. He stood looking down at her for a moment.

"You alright up there?"

It was their neighbour, Andrew Doyle, standing with his husband in the street, staring up at the window in surprise.

"Just an experiment," John called down. "Don't worry, we're alright."

Andrew shook his head. "Hudson's going to have your bloody heads."

"Quite likely," John agreed. He twitched the curtains shut as best he could.

Interesting. They hadn't seen the girl, which was peculiar. It was quite dark, but there were streetlights still, and someone climbing down (or up? still wasn't positive on that point) a building should have been noticed. But on the other hand, there were no sirens, no yelling outside other than Andrew, and if it wasn't for the broken window he wouldn't have guessed there was anything amiss outside.

Sherlock joined him next to the girl, who was now trying to raise herself to her knees. John bent and picked her up bodily, holding firmly even as she struggled. "Now, now, you don't want to get yourself more cut up than you already are." He half-carried, half-dragged the girl to the couch, placing her down as gently as he could. Sherlock had followed, and he now perched on the chair, frowning at her.

The girl seemed to be more alert now. She looked to be in her early twenties, though there were lines on her face that usually came with many more years. She had a pretty face—deep brown eyes, dark skin, a small mouth and nose and high cheekbones. She was tall but she was bent nearly double now, trying to make herself smaller even as she glared at them. Dressed in dark jeans and a black tank top, there was an ugly scar across her left forearm.

"What were you doing at our window?" Sherlock asked. To John's surprise his husband's voice was soft and nearly gentle, with no hint of the usual menace with which he confronted people who broke into Baker Street.

The girl was still glaring. "Playing."

"At what?" John asked. "Being a bull?"

"No, being a burglar."

Nonplussed, John looked toward Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, fixed on the girl, but there was still no aggression in his posture.

"You're a bit old to be playing games," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Who were you trying to convince?"

The girl seemed to relax just a bit. "My boss."

John still didn't quite understand.

"It's him I have to see you about." Her voice rose. "You have to stop him!"

Sherlock took John's hand. "My husband's not quite used to this sort of entry, miss..."

"You can call me Kitty. That's the only name I've ever liked."

"Kitty, then." Sherlock turned to John. "John, this hasn't happened in a while, and never in quite so dramatic a fashion—I had a basement flat on Montague Street, which is where I assume your information comes from?" He directed this inquiry at Kitty, who nodded. "This—playing burglar—was a way I devised to allow for people to get in touch with me, people who can't be seen coming to me."

"People such as?"

"Clients, John. Kitty is our client."

* * *

John thanked every deity in existence that Mrs. Hudson was gone for the weekend to her sister's. The window could be fixed in the meantime, although he wasn't sure that Kitty would be gone when she returned.

Sherlock swept the glass up while John gave Kitty a cursory examination. There were a few pieces of glass in her hair, but besides a few cuts and her bad ankle—which she allowed him to wrap with great reluctance—she was mostly uninjured from her defenestration. No, John thought, wrong word. What on earth is the opposite of defenestration?

That question could wait, he decided as he finished setting Kitty's ankle. Her silence as he set it worried him; it was a nasty break, and that on top of the soreness from falling couldn't have been easy to bear, but she didn't utter a sound; she hardly even clenched her jaw. This girl was used to pain, and that bothered John immensely, far more than it should have.

When he finished sweeping the glass up, Sherlock went into the kitchen. The unmistakeable sounds of tea brewing drifted out, and John relaxed back into the chair, carefully setting down the shards of glass.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"I told you. Kitty. Kitty Winter."

"Is that your real name?"

"It's the one that's real to me. It's not my name right now, but my name right now doesn't belong to me. By rights I don't belong to me."

John felt his stomach swoop. "Right then," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Kitty it is."

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Don't pity me, Doctor. You haven't even heard my story yet, and you're already looking down on me."

"No I'm not," John protested. _Was he?_ "I just meant...Look, I'm sorry, I don't know what I meant. But I swear there's no pity there. The only person I've ever pitied is dead, and I doubt you're anything like him."

Kitty shrugged. "It's all one, I suppose." She leaned back just a little bit on the sofa, body still curled in on itself. She looked exhausted, all of a sudden, and John wanted to give her some kind of comfort. Not knowing what the problem was, however, made it difficult to treat the symptoms.

"We'll sort it out," he said brusquely. "Whatever it is, I promise you."

"I pray to God you do," Kitty replied, her voice suddenly alight with passion. "Because you'll be fighting the fucking Devil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoy this modern take on Kitty's story...it'll be a bit different from the Victorian (hopefully that was made clear from her...ahem, dramatic entrance) :) The next chapter will be up on Saturday, and so forth until this arc is complete.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme  
> P.S. If anyone wants to brush up on the original story, it's "The Adventure of The Illustrious Client," though it'll be a bit different. Certain elements will absolutely be kept. One in particular. I'll leave it up to you to guess which :)


	26. Falling Petals (pt. 2 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitty tells Sherlock and John about her case, and arrangements are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: Mentions of prostitution, underaged prostitution, rape and sexual slavery. This is never explicit, but if you're not comfortable with this subject matter feel free to skip this chapter.

            Five minutes later, Sherlock was back with tea. Kitty was now curled on the sofa, hands shaking so badly she could barely hold her mug.

            "What's the problem, Kitty?" John asked.

            Kitty looked away. "I'm a prostitute."

            "Okay. And you want to get out? We can help with that."

            Kitty stared at him and then threw her head back and laughed, setting her mug on the table. "Wow, Doctor, you're surprisingly non-judgmental. But that's not my problem, I could have gotten out of that years ago. I just don't know what else to do, you see. I'm good at this."

            Years. _Years_.

            "Anyways, no, that's not my problem." Kitty closed her eyes, her face drawn quiet again. "My friend is in trouble."

            "With the Devil?" John asked.

            "That's what I call him. Me and all the living Blossoms."

            Sherlock drew in his breath. "You've been involved with the Gardener?"

            John hadn't heard his husband speak in such a quiet, fierce tone since Moriarty.

            "Call me an idiot, call me a desperate slut, call me whatever you like," Kitty all but snarled, "but yes, I have been. Believe me, I've paid for it." She was starting to hyperventilate.

            John reached out, alarmed, and Kitty shied away like he was going to hit her. John immediately raised his hands, leaning away from her. "It's alright, Kitty," he said as gently as he could. "You're safe."

            It was heartbreaking, watching the girl struggle to get her breathing under control, curled in over herself. John saw his own anguish reflected in Sherlock's eyes, but neither of them wanted to make it worse.

            Eventually, Kitty calmed down. "Maybe you ought to explain it, Mr. Holmes," she croaked. "I dunno if I can, now that it comes to it."

            Sherlock steepled his fingers. "Stop me if I've got something wrong," he directed  Kitty. "The Gardener is one of the most vicious pimps in London, John. He's got a large amount of prostitutes of all ages and genders working for him, and he treats them with as little mercy as he can get away with."

            "Right...so why hasn't anyone stopped him?" _Why haven't we stopped him?_

            Sherlock sighed. "Because even I only have so much pull. Because there's no witnesses, not even when witness protection is involved. Because his name is Bertie Gruner."

            Kitty flinched. John groaned.

            Bertie Gruner was one of the most famous men in London. Well known for his philanthropy and sound business sense, Gruner was a regular face in the more respectable newspapers, a constant presence at society events, and a three-times heartbroken widower.

            Widower...

            "Oh God," John whispered. "His wives..."

            "He called them Lily and Callie and Goldenrod," Kitty said, "even though they weren't their real names. That's what they're under in his book."

            "His book?"

            "That's what I need you to get."

            John didn't quite see the connection, but clearly Sherlock did.  "Tell me about your friend first," he requested.

            Kitty bowed her head. "Her name's Delia, but he's started calling her Violet. She's...she's not like me. She's...dainty." Kitty stared out the broken window for a moment." 

            "Were you lovers?" John asked.

            "Not for long," Kitty said. "I mean, I'm a working girl, aren't I? She never knew, and it was just too hard to keep a secret, so I lied and said I wasn't into girls anymore. Luckily enough, neither was she. We've stayed friends, sort of—I ring her sometimes." Kitty started picking at her nails. "The last time I called her was about two months ago, and she said that she was seeing someone. Two nights later I was dancing at one of his clubs, and I saw them together."

            "Did she see you?" Sherlock asked, voice intense.

            "No. But he did. And he told me that she was his now, and I better not interfere. He'd just tell her that I was jealous, that I stalked him and I'd threatened to kill him and _she_ would believe _him_. And he's right, because when you're in love with him you believe anything he says, because he must be right." Kitty clenched her fists. "And he's taking her out and rubbing her in my face and I'm dancing in costume, in fucking white-face so I doubt she'd recognize me even if she looked at me properly."

            "Kitty," John said calmly, "you need to drink your tea. You're going into shock."

            Without any consideration for the heat of the drink Kitty raised the mug and downed it in one go. "There. Thanks Doctor, that does feel better. So what you need to do—what I'm asking you to do—is to find his book."

            "And what's in the book?" Sherlock asked.

            Kitty shuddered. "The only thing that can break Bertie Gruner's spell. It's his...lust memoir, I suppose. It's fucking frightening. It's got all these pictures of all of his 'flowers', little notes about them...even records of how long it took him to break them."

            John felt very ill.

            "He showed it to me when he thought I was his," Kitty whispered. "God, I loved him so much, and I wanted him, and we were going to get married, and I was going to fix his broken heart. This was before Goldie, you see. Then he showed me the whole thing...even my own page."

            A deep silence fell over the room.

            "I ran. But I couldn't get away forever. All of a sudden no pimp wanted me, no escort service, nothing. I kept getting chased through the streets by his goons. Finally he called me, said we were finished now but I could work for him if I liked. And I went back to him." Suddenly Kitty looked up, and her eyes were burning fire. "But I've not once stopped trying to find a way to ruin him like he's ruined me. And now he's got my friend, and I will be damned if I let him hurt her!"

            "We'll help you," John said firmly. "I promise."

            A bit of the fire went out of Kitty's eyes. "Thank you."

            Sherlock stood up. "I think you'd better get to bed, Kitty. John, will you help her get upstairs?"

            "Wait, we need to go—"

            "Gruner's not married yet," Sherlock interrupted. "Your friend isn't beyond us until then. You haven't slept in at least forty eight hours and you've got a twisted ankle. The best thing for you to do right now is sleep. I'll go and make sure you weren't followed. I've got informants of my own, they may be able to give us a lead on where the book is."

            "You'll need it. I've searched as much as I dared, the bastard's got it hidden well." Kitty looked at John. "What's upstairs?"

            "My old room," John replied. He hesitated. "It might be a bit tricky for you to get up with your ankle."

            Kitty rolled her eyes and held out her arms. "Carry me, valiant knight!"

            "He isn't one, much to my chagrin." Sherlock bent and kissed John. "I'll be back soon, love." He nodded to Kitty, then left the room. John waited until he heard the door swing shut before turning to Kitty. He bent and picked the girl up. There wasn't enough of her for the height she was.

            Kitty stayed quiet as John carried her up the stairs. His old bed was still there, in case of visitors (rare) and migraines for both him and Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson gave it an airing every once in a while, and the bedding was clean. John put Kitty on the bed then stepped back, unsure of what to do.

            "Do you want night clothes? I've got some old T-shirts that might fit."

            Kitty shook her head, curling in on herself. "I'm alright, Doctor. Thanks anyways."

            "Right. Well, get some sleep, okay? You'll be perfectly safe here, I promise."

            "Do you think we can actually get him?" Kitty asked.

            "How do you mean?"

            "I want him gone." There was a terrible hollowness in her voice now. "I want him gone from my life, from my memories. I wasn't happy before we met, not really, but I had some idea that I could be happy someday. Now I don't believe that. So I want him gone. I want him to suffer."

            John sat down next to her. "I can't imagine what he did to you," he said quietly, "but I promise that we will get him, one way or another. And we'll help you find happiness. Sherlock's grand at that."

            To his alarm, tears started rolling down Kitty's cheeks. "I want to believe you," she sobbed. "I want to, I do, why can't I?"

            Carefully, ready to withdraw the second she wanted, John drew Kitty up and into his arms, cradling her against his chest. "You've had a bad go of it, Kitty," he whispered. "And I know that finding hope once you've lost it is the hardest thing to do, but you'll find it. You will. This will pass."

            Kitty leaned against him, her arms still at her sides, but she offered no resistance to the embrace.

            John let her go, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket.      

            Kitty stared at him with wide eyes. "I thought people only carried those in books."

            John chuckled, carefully wiping her face dry. "It comes in handy every once in a while. Come on now, blow." He tucked the handkerchief away when she was done. "Now if you need anything, just give us a shout. We've both got excellent hearing."

            "So you'll hear if I sneak out, then?"

            "I hope you don't feel the need to do that," John answered quietly. "But if you do, remember that we'll still help you. Your friend will be alright."

            Kitty nodded, then turned her back to him, clutching the pillow to her. "Goodnight, Doctor."

            "Goodnight Kitty." John left the light on but closed the door, frowning deeply as he went downstairs.

            Two cups of tea later, Sherlock was back. His husband's face was very grave.

            "She's telling the truth, but she doesn't know how bad it is yet," Sherlock said, sitting on John's knee. John wrapped his arms around his husband and listened intently.

            "She wasn't followed—Gruner's arrogance is quite bad, that may be his undoing—but there's some chatter that Gruner's getting tired of having one of his...Wilted's around." Sherlock's lip curled with disgust. "I didn't know things were this bad, or I would have done something about this bastard sooner. There have actually been four wives—the first was ages ago. She drowned on a cruise when they were honeymooning."

            John shook his head. "Poor lady. Poor ladies. What do we do, Sherlock?"

            "Keep Kitty safe. She's right about that book—my informant knew about it too, but apparently it's not widely known, especially among the women. It seems like it might be enough to put him away for life, as well as save Kitty's friend. We can get started on that tomorrow."

            John nodded. "She's a good kid, Kitty."

            "Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's. "Is she going to be alright, John?"

            John didn't know how to answer that. "I hope so, dear," he said finally. "We'll help her to be as much as we can—that's all we can do, isn't it?"

            "I suppose." 

             John held him another minute in silence. "Love, what's the opposite of denfestration?" 

             "I...have no idea."

             "It must not exist then."

            Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not infallible, love. I'll think about it." 

             "Try to instead of imagining what happened to the girl upstairs," John whispered. 

              Sherlock didn't even bother protesting. "You know me too well."

              John kissed his temple. "That's my job. Come on, let's get some rest." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that wasn't too dark, if so I apologize. I promise it gets lighter (and Kitty gets her revenge).   
> Also, on another light note, I need help deciding about the opposite of defenestration! The three options in last chapter's titles are the contenders judging from reddit and Yahoo, so if people can tell me which they like best (or propose an alternative) that would be super helpful.  
> Cheers,   
> Acme  
> P.S. Johnson (Shinwell Johnson) is a character from the original story. Very minor, he introduces Holmes to Kitty, knows a fair bit about Gruner.


	27. Of Dragons And Anime (pt.3 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitty gets new clothes, meets some kids, and a plan is made to stop a wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know zero things about Naruto, so it won't be discussed in detail. Also, Gruner is a weeaboo who likes Naruto, not everyone who likes Naruto is a weeaboo.

Kitty didn't come downstairs until nearly noon, which proved Sherlock right about her lack of sleep. John was just starting to wonder whether he should go check on her when he heard a faint thumping from the stairs. He went out to see Kitty sliding down the stairs sitting down one step at a time, taking care not to jar her ankle.

            "Good morning," John said politely. "Need a hand?"

            "I'm alright." Kitty's voice was gruff and John wondered whether she was embarrassed about the night before. He wanted to reassure her, but he wasn't quite sure how.

            "Where's Mr. Holmes?" Kitty asked when she'd limped into the kitchen.

            "He's meeting with one of his informants," John replied. He started up the stove again—omelettes were something he could cook really well, and Kitty looked like she could use some protein.

            “How long have you two been together?”

            “Nearly ten years,” John replied. “We’ve been married for five.”

            “You must love him.”

            “I do. He loves me too, which is handy.”

            They ate in silence. John kept checking his phone, just to make sure that Sherlock hadn't texted, but he hardly ever did when he was with Johnson.

            A thought occurred to him. "You don't have any clothes with you, do you?"

            Kitty stared down at her T-shirt and jeans and looked back at him as though he might be ill in the head.

            "I mean something to change into," John clarified. "Smart-arse."

            Kitty laughed. "No, I didn't bring anything with me. I can go back and fetch something."

            "I don't think that's a good idea," John said. "Sherlock probably wants you handy." He left out the part where he thought the less time Kitty spent in the same place as Gruner, the happier he would be.

            "Well I suppose I'll just stay in these, then," Kitty said with a shrug. "I don't mind."

            John studied her for a moment. "You're about the same size as a friend of ours. Her name's Molly, and we trust her completely. Would it be alright if I asked her to bring you some clothes?"

* * *

 

            Molly was wonderful. Within twenty minutes she was at their door with the twins, their old diaper bag slung over her shoulder. Jacob and Lily were three and had mastered the toilet years before, but it was just the right size for hiding extra clothes.

            "Hello," she said cheerfully. The twins ran to John, who picked them up and slung them over his shoulders. "How's everything going?"

            "Busy as ever, Molly. And how's himself?"

            "Himself is taking a day off tomorrow, which is lovely. We'll be able to take a trip together." Molly glanced over at Kitty. "Hello! John said your name was Kitty?"

            Kitty nodded, suddenly shy. "Yes, Dr. Hooper."

            "Oh don't be silly, Molly's plenty." Molly pulled some T-shirts and a pair of jeans out from the bag. "I hope you like the colours. You can keep them as long as you like."

            "Oh, I'll return them soon, Molly. Just as soon as all..." Kitty glanced at the twins, who were staring at her intently. "As all this is over."

            Molly didn't ask any questions, she was rather wonderful that way. "Well I'll be off, then. Come on, kiddos!"

            "But Mummy, we want to play with Uncle John!"

            "I'll play with them, if you want to have a chat with your friend," Kitty said quickly.

            John blinked in surprise.

            The twins, on the other hand, were ecstatic. "Do you know any good dragon games?" Lily asked her. "I like dragons."

            "I know some excellent dragon games," Kitty said seriously, leading them into the living room. "Now, I was in a bit of a battle with a dragon last night, so you and your brother will have to do most of the leaping, but it'll be fun all the same..."

            John steered Molly into the kitchen, for some reason quite sure that Kitty had this in hand.

            "She's very sweet, " Molly said quietly. "I know you can't tell me everything, but...John, is she in danger?"

            "She very much might be," John whispered back. "Gruner's got a pretty tight hold on her, but the more worrisome part is what he's going to do if he decides that she's no longer useful."

            "But she doesn't care about that, does she?" Molly said. "She just wants to help her friend."

            "Yeah." John frowned as Molly smiled. "What?"

            "She reminds me a lot of you. Of both of you, actually."

            John didn't quite know how to respond to that.

            "What is Sherlock doing right now?"

            "Trying to get some information out of his contacts, see if he can find any weaknesses with Gruner. If at all possible we want to do this without violence—Gruner's powerful, and any little slip could cause a lot of trouble for far too many people."

            Molly pursed her lips. "If I can help at all, just me know."

            John's phone beeped and he dove for it.

            The text was brief and curt. Coming home. Have plan. Love S.

            John smiled. "We may be able to let you know right now."

            Sherlock didn't seem in a rush to talk when he arrived home. He chatted with the twins, consulted on the fort that Kitty was building to be the dragon's cave, and even asked Molly if she and Mike's garden was turning out properly this summer.

            Finally John grew too impatient. "What is it, love?"

            Sherlock shooed the twins off his knee. "Bring your biscuits in to Kitty," he instructed. His smile faded as the two rejoined Kitty under the cushions. "We don't have much time."

            "What did Johnson say?" John asked tensely.

            "Gruner is announcing his engagement to Delia day after tomorrow." Sherlock's lips were tense. "And he never marries with another Blossom alive."

            "So he needs to get rid of Kitty."

            "And two other girls, he calls them Lupin and Pansy. They're both a bit older than Kitty, but they were still after the third wife."

            "So we need to find them."

            "He's got them locked in his basement."

            "Alright, then..."

            "We can protect Delia if we have the book. It'll be enough to call the wedding off, no matter how ensnared she is, and that'll buy us some extra time. "

            "But what about the other girls?" Molly asked, eyes worried. "It's all well and good to say you'll hide Kitty here, but he has two of them on hand. What if..."

            John shook his head. "We need to move tonight. Is there any way we can move it up?"

            "Not unless you can learn about Naruto in the next six hours," Sherlock said dully.

            "Excuse me?"

            "It's a manga and an anime."

            "I know what it is. Just...why is it relevant?"

            "Because Bertie Gruner is a...I believe the term is weeaboo? He's obsessed with Japanese culture, at least the parts of it that appeal to him. He shows a particular fondness for Naruto. My idea was to set you up as a collector with first editions to sell of the manga, but you need to actually know what you're talking about."

            "I could go instead," Molly said. She blushed as Sherlock stared at her. "What? I like Naruto. It's a decent show. Mike introduced me to it."

            "Molly, no. You can't go."

            "Why not? Kitty obviously can't go, and it needs to be done. Besides, I've got an advantage you two don't have."

            "Which is?"

            "I'm a woman dealing with a man who thinks women are inherently inferior," Molly shrugged.

            John looked at Sherlock helplessly. "This is mental."

            "You two can come too, and you can go through the house and try to free the girls. I'll keep him chatting, make sure that he's distracted, and I'll keep an eye out for book hiding places. Did your informant say it was in his office?"

            "You'll be talking to him in his collector's room, it's where all his special acquisitions are. The book has to be there somewhere." Sherlock's voice was strained. "Molly, are you sure?"

            "Sherlock, I want to help. I can do this. Now all I need is a babysitter."

            There was a whoop from the living room. John poked his head out and saw Kitty laughing as Lily and Jacob were bouncing up and down on the couch cushions.

            "I think you may have one," John started, then cringed as the doorbell rang three times downstairs. "Make that two." He stood. "That's Mrs. Hudson, I'd better go explain what's going on."

            Molly glanced toward the still shattered window and the mess of the living room. "Good luck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter (along with the epilogue) will be up Wednesday!  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	28. Thorns (pt. 4 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justice is served...though not in a court of law.

            Kitty protested loudly when she was told the plan.

            "This is stupid, you can't all go and put yourselves in danger for me!"

            "We'll be alright," John assured her. "We won't be long."

            "I know the house!" Kitty snapped. "I can show you the way!"

            "Or you can draw us a map," Sherlock retorted. "Kitty if Gruner sees you, if anyone in that house sees you he'll know that the jig is up. He'll take Delia, kill your friends and disappear. You know there's nothing you can do, and I know that's frustrating, but you're going to have to trust us."

            Kitty was breathing hard.

            Sherlock softened his voice. "Kitty, you've done as much as you can do, far more than anyone could have asked of you. Now you've got to hand it over, and I know that it's frustrating, but this is the best thing you can do for your friends."

            Kitty looked away. "Alright, fine." She sat down at the table and picked up a pencil. "Graph paper, please."

            Sherlock looked at her, startled.

            "What's the fucking point if it's not to scale?" Kitty snapped.

            Sherlock laughed. "I quite agree."

* * *

 

            Sherlock watched as Molly entered Gruner's house as Mrs. Ford, a secret manga enthusiast. He was desperately worried for her, but he knew that Molly could hold her own. She'd always been very capable of making people underestimate her.

            The plan now was simple. Molly and Gruner were going to the collector's room. Sherlock, through an open window, was going to watch and make sure nothing untoward happen, and climb in to retrieve the book once they were gone. John, meanwhile was going after the girls, making his way quietly through the house to the basement. If all went well, Molly would point out where the book was or Sherlock would see it himself, the girls would be out of the house, and everyone would be safe.

            The collector's room was on the second floor but there was a handy shed under two of the three windows. Sherlock didn't even have to climb the tree next to it. He chose the window in the middle, which allowed him to see most of the room.

            Molly and Gruner entered, talking quite cheerfully about a...child with crows? Sherlock had never seen the anime nor read the manga, but clearly Gruner liked Molly's ideas. Molly was flitting about the room quite naturally, exclaiming over different figurines and surreptitiously checking the bindings of the various books placed on high-quality shelves.

            As she turned back to Gruner and held out the manga Sherlock had given her, Sherlock saw her hand drift to her right, and he spotted it. An old, velvet covered book alone on a shabby cushion. Now Molly would feign having to go out to her car to get the rest of her items, and Gruner would follow.

            That was the plan, then a man—security, unmarried, sadomasochist—came running into the room.

            _John._

            Sherlock froze, his heart in his mouth. John clearly hadn't been caught, but the girls must have been discovered missing. They needed some kind of distraction.

            A tree branch shifted slightly in the wind.

            Wait. There was no wind.

            Sherlock turned just in time to see a dark hand throw a bottle through the open window to his right. He heard a horrible scream.

            Sherlock threw open his own window and leapt inside. Molly and the security guard were kneeling over Gruner, who was howling in agony and clutching at his now-ruined face.

            Bertie Gruner had been an attractive man in a sense—tall, dark, smouldering eyes, strong jaw and firm mouth. Now acid—it was sulfuric acid, and Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that it had come from his kitchen table—was eating away at his features, turning a face any woman would look twice at into a mockery of the human form.

            Molly was white and sick looking, and she stared up at Sherlock in horror.

            "It wasn't me," Sherlock said. "Call an ambulance." He snatched up the book and glared down at the security guard. " Tell them they needn't hurry."

            Without another word he leapt back out the window, jumped carefully off the shed and took off in pursuit.

            It took him three blocks to catch up with Kitty, who was wearing a pair of Mrs. Hudson's trainers (tighter than hers, it would help support her ankle, stupid _stupid_ ). He didn't waste time, just grabbed her and yanked her into an alley.

            "Let me go," Kitty screeched, fighting his hold.

            Sherlock held her fiercely. "Why didn't you stay behind?"

            "I had to do this!" Kitty was tiring, her struggling becoming weaker. "I had to hurt him, he can't ever hurt anyone else like this, no matter what happens!"

            "Kitty, you could have been hurt!"

            "I had to see it!" Kitty was shaking now. "I had to see it, I had to know he was finished, don't you understand?!"

            And Sherlock, who had climbed up every flight of stairs at St. Bart's to personally inspect the corpse of his worst enemy, who had fallen in love with a man who'd killed for him twenty-four hours after they met, did.

            "I had to hurt him," Kitty whispered. "I had to. Show him roses…roses have thorns."

            "I know," Sherlock said, surprising himself. "I know. I'm sorry."

            Kitty whirled in his arms and sobbed wildly. Sherlock put the book down and hugged the girl close. "It's done," he promised. "And I will not judge you, nor will anyone else. It's over, Kitty."

            They stayed like that until John found them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a short epilogue up tomorrow, I had some loose ends to tie up.   
> Cheers,  
> Acme  
> P.S. Hopefully that was enough of a reference for cookies, NovaNara!


	29. Kitty's Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immediate aftermath of the Kitty arc.

_Three hours later_

         "So you're telling me you were looking in the window and didn't see who was next to you?" Greg's eyebrows were raised. 

         "Yes. My attention was wholly on Molly." 

          Greg shook his head. "I know you're lying.  _You_ know I know you're lying. Just like you were about the Study in Pink."

         "What?"

          "You heard me." Greg glanced over to where Kitty sat on the sofa, curled under one of the many shock blankets Sherlock and John had nicked over the years. John was speaking to her soothingly. "Just...don't let John write this one up, okay?" 

         "Of course not," Sherlock snapped. "He wouldn't dream of it, it would risk--ah." 

         Greg clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, you take care of your girl, you two. I've got to say, whoever did it, it was a masterful defenestration."

          "What?" John looked up. "But it was thrown from outside." 

         "Yeah, but either way it's still a defenestration. It doesn't matter what side of the window you're on." 

         Sherlock inclined his head. "Brother in law, you never cease to amaze." 

* * *

_Three days later_

            Bertie Gruner would survive to stand trial, but he was a broken man. His operations were suspended,  his 'workers'—they preferred the term prisoners—were set up with jobs and housing by a team organized by Greg and Mycroft. All except one.

            "Our regular nanny is getting married," Molly explained to Kitty. "It'll only be another year or so until they go to school, but it will still be nice to have someone when they get home, since I work sort of irregular hours. They really like you. Do say yes."

            And Kitty did. But she said no to Molly's offer of a room in their house, preferring to move in with some flatmates.

           After all, the upstairs bedroom at 221b Baker Street was perfectly comfortable

* * *

_Three months later_

"Kitty, come on down already!" 

          "I'm trying to finish typing up my case notes, Dad!"

          "Sherlock told you it could wait, now come on!" 

           "Yes, Kitty. Put your laptop away, the show's about to start!" 

           "Alright, alright." Kitty thundered down the stairs, glitter still smeared on her cheek from the arts and crafts she'd done with Lily and Jacob. Without pausing, she dashed into the kitchen, grabbed the cold beers and biscuits, turned sharply and somehow landed between John and Sherlock without upsetting plates or dropping the cans. "You do realize that we're watching a DVD, right? The show can start at any time?" 

           "Yes, but as I have the remote, I decide when it starts, and it's about to," Sherlock sniffed. He hit play and 'Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares'--John and Kitty watched for food horror, Sherlock for the rows and deductions--started to play. 

           Kitty rolled her eyes and leaned her head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Yes, Da." 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that wraps up this part of Kitty's story--don't worry, there'll be more to come down the road (cough Stan cough). Just to be clear, it's hard to adopt a 24 year old girl without a birth certificate, but having the British Government as your older brother does have some nice perks.  
> Also, Arvi gets kudos for giving me (well, Greg) the solution to the word problem.   
> Cheers,   
> Acme


	30. Little Ears (for Arvi) (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy has some questions--his grandfathers have stories. Kitty's...a little amused. Holmes and Watson are still in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Arvi, who asked for more Billy (congrats on finishing all your finals!)

            Billy Hopkins, aged five, was perfectly delighted by his mother's suggestion he go to visit his Grandfathers while Daddy was away. Mummy took him up to 221b early that morning, and Billy could already hear the playful argument over the last bit of toast.

            Billy didn't bother to knock, and simply burst into the room, nearly tripping Mrs. Hudson in his haste. "Hello!"

            "Good morning!" Grandad John was smiling hugely, and he picked Billy up and swung him onto his knee. "You've got a lot of energy today, Billy. You must have slept better than Holmes!"

            That was another silly thing Billy couldn't understand. Grandad Sherlock's name was...well, Sherlock. Why on earth would his best friend call him Holmes, the way Anderson called Daddy Hopkins? It didn't make sense.

            His other grandfather was lying on the sofa in his dressing gown, glaring good-naturedly at Grandad John. "I slept perfectly normally, Watson, I just don't feel the need to scamper about. Best to leave that to the young ones, anyways."

            Billy laughed. "You're not old, Grandad Sherlock. Uncle Mycroft is old, you're loads younger."

            Mummy had both hands on her face, but her eyes were doing her happy sparkle so perhaps she wasn't cross. "Billy, that's impolite!"

            "Why?"

            "Because, Billy, you shouldn't remind people of how old they are," Grandad Sherlock explained, sitting up. "I've heard it's considered an insult to remind people of how many trips around the Sun they've made."

            Grandad John gasped, clutching Billy to his chest. "Did you hear that, Billy? Understanding of social customs and an acknowledgement that the Earth goes around the Sun, all at once! Your grandfather's learning!"

            Billy wasn't quite sure why Mummy laughed or Granddad Sherlock scowled, but he smiled anyways. "That's good, Grandad! Daddy says you should always keep learning!"

            This, apparently, was even funnier than what Grandad John said.     

* * *

 

            When Mummy left, Grandad Sherlock took out his chemistry set. Billy was never, never allowed to touch, but he watched and listened as his grandfather explained how different chemicals turned different colours when you did different things with them. Billy didn't quite understand everything, but he loved the pretty colours, and he was fascinated when some of them made puffs of smoke when you poured them together—one even popped and seemed to spark!

            Grandad John was sitting in his chair writing as they played, and Billy was suddenly concerned that Grandad John was lonely. He got off his chair and curled up next to him. "What are you writing, Grandad?"

            "I'm writing up an old case that your grandfather and I worked," John answered.

            "A case? Like when you go on holiday?"

            "No, a detective case," Grandad John explained. "We're detectives, you see, when we're not being grandfathers."

            "Really?! Is it like when Daddy's a policeman? What's it like?"

            "Watson," Grandad Sherlock said quickly, "you remember what Kitty said?"

            Kitty was Mummy, even though only his Grandads called her that. Daddy always called her 'Snowflake' (which was apparently funny but Billy didn't understand At All), and everyone else called her Mrs. Hopkins. Except Billy, of course, who called her Mummy.

            "What did Mummy say?" Billy asked.

            Granddad John bit his lip. "Well, Billy, your Mummy isn't quite sure you're old enough to hear stories about what we do together. It's a grown-up job, and there are scary parts."

            "Have you ever been scared?" Billy asked, wide eyed. His grandfathers were brave and clever—surely they'd never be afraid.

            But then his granddads looked at each other, and Billy wasn't quite so sure.

            "Yes," Grandad Sherlock said finally. "Yes, there have been very scary moments for both of us. But we're alright, and they're over now."

            "Well then why would I be scared?" Billy really didn't understand, and he was tired of that. "Please, Grandads, can't you just tell one story?"

            His grandfathers exchanged another look. "I suppose there are some we could tell you," Grandad John said eventually. "But you must promise to tell us if you're frightened and want the story to stop, alright?"

            Billy promised eagerly.

* * *

            When Mummy came to collect him just before supper, Billy was ecstatic.

            "Mummy, Grandad John and Sherlock told me all about being a detective! And it sounds more fun than being a policeman, and they found lost jewels in a goose and saved a lady from being buried alive and they run about all over London and can I be a detective too?"

            Mummy was very surprised.

            "Well, Billy, you're awfully young, but how about this? If you like, your granddads can keep telling you stories and teach you about it...I can tell you some too, actually. Then, when you're a bit older, you can maybe try it, okay?"

            "She isn't cross at all!" Billy called up the stairs.

The flat door swung open, and Grandad Sherlock peeked down the stairs. "Ah, good evening, Kitty."

            Mummy shook her fist at him, but she was smiling so big Billy knew it was a joke. "Why'd you tell him the story about Lady Frances?"

            "He insisted on hearing the end!"

            Kitty laughed and scooped Billy up. "Well, I suppose it's alright, then. But if Stan and I run out of answers to his questions, I'm bringing him back here."

            Billy threw his arms around Mummy's neck. Mummy was brilliant.

            And, to his delight, she was also a detective, though she wasn't doing so much running about now since he was born.

            Mummy was also very understanding when Billy came creeping into her room at three in the morning that night, asking if he could stay to make sure nobody stole his necklace. Daddy was away, after all. He had to protect her. And her necklace.

* * *

            On the other hand, a couple of years later, Mummy was not at all pleased when she found out that Billy had been playing page-boy the day a dangerous criminal was invited for tea. At least they got the yellow stone back, but Mummy nearly broke Grandad's real head when she first heard, and only stopped shouting when Billy swore he'd gone for the police right away and hadn't heard any of the conversation.

            (That wasn't quite true, of course, but all detectives needed to lie to their Mums once, so he was just being sensible and getting it out of the way early .)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cases referenced in this story are 'The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle', 'The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax' and 'The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone' (I couldn't resist when I saw the page's name was Billy).  
> I'm going to start tagging requests in the chapter titles, so people can find their chapters more easily. Also, would it help if I went back and marked them as Victorian or Modern (or both, occasionally?)  
> On a more complicated note...I realized after I posted the Kitty arc last week that I've screwed up the modern timeline for sure, and quite possibly the Victorian (that one is more salvageable). It's not by much, but a few events are off by a couple of years. My question is...does that bother anyone? I can go back and edit if it does, but if it doesn't then we'll go Doyle rules--where the timeline doesn't make total sense, you can't date everything, but there is a clear idea of 'x' comes before 'y' (like who's married, who has children, etc.). Let me know either way!  
> Cheers, Acme


	31. Wedded Eyes (for merlynnllwyd) (Crossover)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's wedding night, and an anniversary for Holmes and Watson.   
> Sometimes the greatest similarities lie in the greatest differences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there be discussion of sex ahead but no...actual sex. Still, this chapter might be...slightly higher than Teen? Just a warning.   
> This is for merlynnllwyd, hopefully I've done your request some justice. It was tricky to write but I enjoyed the challenge.

            John glanced over at Sherlock, who was nodding off in the seat next to him. They'd chosen to go south for their honeymoon, to Bermuda in fact (this had been settled by a game of darts). What John had not factored in while debating different sunscreens and hotels and things to do (they were not going to go diving for sharks, he didn't care if it was mostly safe, he wasn't going near predators on purpose on his honeymoon) was that Bermuda was far away.

            Far too far away, as a matter of fact.

            They'd been flying for what felt like a week and John itched to get off the plane. Part of it was sheer discomfort, of course. The person in front of them had their seat reclined too far, his clothes were perfect for a Bermudan night but not quite for the chill of an aeroplane, and above all he was exhausted. He hadn't slept well the night before.

            It probably had something to do with the fact that he'd slept apart from Sherlock the night before. It was tradition, after all, and John had let Sherlock get away without a lot of traditional thing, he didn't like them much himself, but the fact remained that this was one simple, easy thing to do. Sleep apart from the man he loved. Who he hadn't slept without in over four years, not counting one or two days here and there, but those were ordinary days. Not the night before their wedding, with all the qualms and worries that came with that.

            John had been trying to sleep for the past two hours—ahis husband (God that was a gorgeous word) had managed to fall asleep, but even with a quick drink John was staying resolutely awake. Which might be a problem when it came time for them to go to bed.

            It was strange—it wasn't as though either he or Sherlock were virgins, and they'd made love plenty of times before getting married. Why would this night be any different? Other than John potentially falling asleep in the middle, that is.

            No, that wouldn't do. John closed his eyes again and took Sherlock's hand in his. the cool of the metal was somehow just as soothing as the warmth of his skin, and soothed by that, John did manage to fall asleep.

            He woke with a start a few hours later to a kindly stewardess shaking him by the shoulder. "We've landed, sir. Do you want to wake your husband?"

            John turned to see Sherlock, his face pressed against the window, snoring quietly. "Sher," John said quietly. "Wake up dear, we're here."

            If John was writing the story of their honeymoon (which he was never, never, never going to do, not in any level of detail, no matter how much people had been asking) he would have drawn a blank over the next hour of customs, luggage collecting, taxi finding, and to-the-hotel-travelling. It was bad enough for him to experience it once. At least he wasn't so tired now.

            The hotel was far more posh than John had ever seen, but Sherlock's parents had insisted on paying for the honeymoon. The lobby seemed to be lined with gold, and John's shoes felt far shabbier than ever as he walked across it.

            The concierge was bright and smiley, the bellhop wished them congratulations, and before John knew it they had been whisked up to their room with an ice bucket dotted with tiny champagnes, which felt ridiculously fancy.

            When the door closed behind the bell hop John glanced up at Sherlock, suddenly and unaccountably nervous. "Do you want to...well, shall we have a drink?"

            "Of course. I suppose we'll have one bottle each?"

            "I think it's so the marital fighting doesn't begin over who gets to pop the cork."

            John laughed and relaxed.

            They popped the corks out on the balcony, sending them soaring onto the beach. According to Sherlock's calculations, they could go down to the beach tomorrow and pick them up just under one of the palm trees, well out of anyone's way. John just smiled and sipped the champagne.

            It was nearing midnight now—nearing dawn in London—but John no longer felt tired. He felt curiously invigorated, like the time difference hadn't mattered.

            "John."

            John shivered as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him from behind, pressed a kiss to his throat. "John, are you tired?"

            "Not really," John managed as Sherlock trailed kisses down his neck. "What about you? We can go to sleep?"

            "That sounds like an idea for later," Sherlock answered. His hands slipped under John's shirt, and John felt Sherlock's ring against his hip. All of a sudden, he understood, and laughed.

            "What?" Sherlock asked, stilling his hands. "I thought you weren't ticklish there."

            "I'm not," John answered. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock neck. "I just understood why this feels so special."

            "Ah." Sherlock's voice was clearly trying to be calm. "Care to share?"

            "We're married now," John explained. "And it's not that marriage itself changes it, it's just that we've committed today to being together forever, and we could, and this is something I never thought I would have."

            "Just like it's something I never thought that I would want," Sherlock answered. He added quickly "and I do want it, John, of course I do."

            "I know, dear." John traced Sherlock's cheekbones. "I know, and now we know for sure, and we just made a really big promise, and we're joyful about it, and that's what makes this night special. It's another first."

            "The firsts have always been good, with you," Sherlock mused. His voice had dropped almost an octave. "I think we should make love now."

            John laughed out loud. "I think that's the best idea you've ever had, husband. Come on, I've got a list of things I've thought up, since this is a special occasion."

            "I suppose loving minds think alike," Sherlock replied, practically dragging John inside. "I've got one too."

            "We have all night," John promised.

            "We have the rest of our lives."

            "I love the sound of that."                 

            "I do too, Mr. Holmes."

            "..."

            "What?"

            "I think I really, really need you to call me that again."

 

 

            (And fade to black).

 

* * *

 

             It was a fairly ordinary day when it happened. Watson had worked in the garden most of the morning, weeding his rosebushes and watering all the wildflowers that Holmes was careful (after the first disastrous time) to not call weeds themselves. Holmes had puttered around his beehives for a while, making exclamations that Watson hadn't fully understood. The afternoon was spent walking in to the village together and getting the post, walking home and reading Billy's letters (he insisted on writing to both his grandfathers, even though they were often the exact same letter) and Kitty's latest article about women's rights. Stan had even sent a postcard from Paris, on a work trip to the Sureté to learn about new policing techniques.

            Too lazy to cook a full supper, Holmes had spread honey on bread and they eaten that with some of the new peas and beans, sitting in their chairs on the porch together. Watson's chair rocked, and he set it going just a little, his eyes closing as he wondered whether they did, in fact, have to wait until it was fully dark to go to bed.

            "Do you know we've been retired a year Monday?" Holmes said abruptly.

            Watson startled. "Of course, Sherlock. I can remember my own anniversary." He glanced at his partner. "What is it? Do you not want to have the family here?”

            "No, I want to go." Holmes folded his hands. "It's nothing, John."

            "Don't lie to me, love," Watson whispered.

            Holmes flinched at that. He stayed quiet for another moment, then whispered almost desperately, "do you still desire me?"

            Whatever he'd been expecting to come out of his husband's mouth, it certainly hadn't been that. "I...what on Earth do you mean, Sherlock?"

            "You told me that you desired me when we first...came together. That we oughtn't do anything about it, because the risk was too great, but you wanted me to know that if we could have been safe, that you would want to."

            "And you expressed the same. I'm not sure what you're asking me," Watson said carefully.

            "Aren't we..." Holmes fidgeted. "Aren't we safe here? As safe as we'll ever be?"

            Then Watson understood. Obvious, really. He was beginning to sound as stupid as he portrayed himself sometimes (he'd had to stop in the later stories, because Holmes had threatened to tear them up if he called himself an idiot one more time).

            "We are safe here," Watson agreed. "Do you want to…try it now?"

            "You don't have to if you don't want to," Holmes said immediately. "It was just a passing thought, I was stupid to bring it up."

            Watson couldn't help chuckling. "My dear husband, it is rather normal for married people to have those sorts of relations. If you want to have them, of course you should tell me." He paused for a moment. "I'm simply concerned because of...well, I'm not a young man, Holmes."

            "Nor am I," Holmes answered.

            "I know, but...you're a few years younger, and that does make a difference with this sort of thing. I may not be...capable, of giving you much pleasure."

            "At least you know you've been capable," Holmes muttered.

            That shocked Watson. "You've never...not ever? Not even with a woman?"

            "I've never had cause or desire," Holmes replied. And Watson could tell he meant it. "You're the only person I've ever felt like this for, and I...I want this. I do. And I've been able to push it aside,  because you're right, it's been too dangerous, but now I want it and...what if I cannot? What if I simply cannot show you physically how much I love you?"

            Watson stood up. Moving slowly, as he would around a spooked horse, he knelt in front of Holmes and cupped his face. Holmes immediately leaned into the touch.

            "Sherlock Holmes, you listen to me. You show me that you love me in a thousand different ways, some of which I am unable to reciprocate. You play me music on an instrument I can barely hold correctly, you deduce what I want before I know it myself, and you give me comfort for dreams of which you have no knowledge. So if you want to try physical love tonight, or any other night, we can. I believe we are safe here, and I am more than willing to be with you, though I confess I am nearly ignorant of the proper procedure."

            "I know the theory," Holmes interrupted. Watson raised his eyebrows, and Holmes blushed. "I was...researching."

             "You'll have to show me, then," Watson smiled. "Dear heart, if we try and it does not work, then it does not work. But it is worth a try, so why not? We will learn together."

            Holmes closed his eyes. "I...I want this, John. I want you."

            Watson leaned in and kissed him. "Then you have me, Sherlock."

            Holmes kissed him for a long moment, longer than they ever could have in London. When they broke apart Holmes' eyes seemed darker than usual. He helped Watson to his feet. "Do you want to try now? I...I don't wish to lose my nerve."

            "When you like and where you like," Watson said playfully.

            Holmes groaned. "You can't say things like that, John."

            Watson pulled him tightly against him, leaning their foreheads together. "And if I do?" he teased. "'What will you do then?"

            To his surprise Holmes narrowed his eyes and pushed so that Watson was pressed against the wall of the cottage. "I suppose I'll think of something, won't I?"

            Watson's head was spinning. "I believe we should go to our room, Holmes. I may not know much about this...method, but if it's anything like the other a bed is infinitely more comfortable."

            Holmes pulled back and offered his hand, looking much more confident. "As the Doctor orders," he purred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....yeah.   
> I was worried about this one, since explicitness isn't really my thing, but I realized that it was an important time to cover, so thanks again to merlynnllwyd for the request.   
> Also, if anyone wants to write the 'after the fade to black'...you are heartily welcome. For either timeline. Seriously, just send me a link so I can read it. Blanket permission.   
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	32. What's In A Name (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John meet a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing....

            John groaned as they made their way through Scotland Yard. "Why did you have to solve so many cases while I was ill?"

            "You didn't have to come with me," Sherlock sniffed as they dodged two gaping interns. "You have no paperwork to fill out."

            "Sherlock, dear, if I've learned anything from the last twelve years, it's that you are not to be trusted when completing paperwork."

            "I've gotten better," his husband protested.

            John's explanation of how 'better than sociopathic' didn't mean 'acceptable for public consumption' was interrupted by a shout down the hall. Exchanging glances the two of them sped up.

            The hallway was blocked with people, gathered around a pale, young officer. John barged in without a thought, glaring at all of them. He placed himself between the stranger and Blackwater, a Sergeant with a nasty history of confrontation.

            "What's going on?"

            Sherlock was beside him, glaring at the crowd. A few looked embarrassed, but Blackwater just sneered.

            "Seems little Missy here's got her paperwork mixed up, and we're helping her out."

            "I'm not a Miss." The voice was quiet, shaking. John turned to get a better look at the officer. Shorter than John, fair hair falling into brown eyes, Hopkins (from the nametag) looked desperate to run. "I'm not, I already told you."

            "Sorry, then, are you a Mrs.? Your husband's a poor sod, isn't he?"

            Sherlock grabbed Blackwater by the shoulders, shutting up the hissing crowd. "Be quiet," he ordered. "Leave the boy alone."

            Blackwater was sweating now, but he managed a weak grin. "If she's a boy, I'm a fucking ballerina."

            Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I never knew you were a dancer, Blackwater. Did you, John? Why don't you show us your steps?" He relinquished his hold on Blackwater. The rest of the crowd had backed away now, frightened by the chill in Sherlock's voice.

            "Yeah right."

            John stepped forward, making sure to keep Hopkins out of view. "Go on, Blackwater. Show us a pirouette or two."

            Blackwater's face went from red to white. "I'm not going to—I'm not—"

            "What's the matter?" John was shaking with rage. "Don't want a spectacle made out of yourself? You've made this lad's day difficult, you wanker. Allow me to return the favour."

            Blackwater recoiled. John glanced to the right, saw Greg and Dimmock coming down the hall. Blackwater saw them too.

            "Apologize, now," John snarled. "Say you're sorry to—sorry, what's your whole name, Hopkins?"

            Hopkins raised his head. "Stan," he said. "Stan Hopkins."

            John smiled and shook his hand. "John Watson," he replied. "Pleasure to meet you. Now, Blackwater..."

            But Blackwater, seeing an opening in the suddenly unfriendly crowd, had bolted down the hall.

            "Shame," Sherlock said. "He would have made a lovely dancer."

The crowd began to disperse as Greg and Dimmock came up.

            "You alright, Stan?" Dimmock asked. He shot John and Sherlock a grateful look. "Stan's new—he's my second cousin. He's brilliant; going to make detective in a few years, I'm sure."

            "Not if I can't get people to get my name right," Stan said bitterly. John could see it now—the outline of a binder under a too-tight uniform, hair hacked off, a face that would never grow a beard without hormones.

            "Make them get it right," he said, surprising himself. "Show them that who you are matters, that you can be better than all of them while you're still solving your own case. You'll be fine, lad."

            Stan smiled. He looked up at Sherlock, suddenly looking a bit shy. "I've heard...I've read everything on your blog, Dr. Watson. That's why I wanted to be a detective."

            Sherlock smiled, his rare one, when he met a new person he liked immediately. "I'm sure we can give you some pointers, can't we John? Why don't you join us? I've got some paperwork to fill out, and I can go over the cases with you."

            Stan nodded eagerly.

            "He's going to be completely incomprehensible at first," John warned. "I'll translate as best as I can."

            "Oh, I'm rather used to that," Stan answered. "I read both your blogs, after all."

            Sherlock's smile widened. "Come along, Stan," he said, pulling the boy down the hall. "Now, the first thing to remember is to notice everything. Not everything matters, but..."

            John watched them go with a fond smile. He turned to Greg, who he was surprised to see was scowling. "What?" he asked, suddenly apprehensive. Greg surely wouldn't have hired someone if he had problems with their gender identity, would he?

            Greg noticed him watching. "I suppose your husband can remember first names upon meeting someone after all," he grumbled.

            John just shook his head. "Not everything matters, Greg," he quoted. "But Stan's name matters to notice."

            "I suppose you're right."         

            “Whereas what was important to notice about you was that you’d let him into crime scenes, you would pick up when he called and that you’ve always been afraid of snakes.”

            “Well that’s—hey, that was meant to be a secret!”

            Suddenly the paperwork seemed awfully urgent. John decided he’d better run for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, just to be clear, Stan is transgendered in modernity. He'll be meeting Kitty soon (as soon as I write it).   
> I've got another request coming up next week--apologies for the delay, but I've been sick the last week or so.   
> Cheers,   
> Acme


	33. Take A Deep Breath (crossover) (for Willow_Angel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes in times of trouble, you need a hand from a little further away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this is late! My ribs got messed up this week and I fell a bit behind!   
> Warnings for violence and people being mean to John and Watson.

_Victorian_

            Watson groaned as his vision cleared. Then he blinked. Blinked again.

            Where in Hell was he?

            He was reclined on some sort of sofa, but the material was utterly unfamiliar. The clutter in the room was ridiculous—piles of unrelated objects on every surface but two chairs by the fire, a violin case propped against the windowsill, a strange box on the mantle.

            It reminded him a lot of Baker Street, but…it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. This place was bizarre—there was an edge to it, a taste in the air that convinced Watson that he was very far from home indeed.

            How had he gotten here?

            Trying to remember, Watson tried to pull himself to a sitting position, but fell back with a wince as pain stabbed into his ribs. He put a hand to his side…and it came away bloody.

            Images were coming through now—the gang of jewel thieves at the dock, the police not responding to their summons…Hopkins getting knocked down, the leader raising a knife…

            He’d dived in front of it. Hopkins was only a boy, his life ahead of him. The knife had sank into his ribs, and the shock had made him stumble backwards. He must have struck his head on the pavement.

            Watson winced. The last thing he’d heard was his husband screaming his name.

            Footsteps came from down the hall, and Watson tensed. A tall, pale man clothed in a strange robe walked in and did a double-take. “Who are you?”

            “Forgive me,” Watson said automatically. “I did not intend to be here.” Then it hit him. “Sherlock?”

            The man’s eyes narrowed. “You…you must be John. Watson.”

            “I am. I would get up, but I am somewhat indisposed.” Watson gestured to his side.

            The other man—Sherlock—rushed over. “John’s not here,” he said—rather strange, why did that matter? “He’s visiting Harry.”

            Watson winced. “Why on earth would he subject himself to that man?”

            “Harry’s a woman, actually. Harriet.” Sherlock pushed Watson’s hands away from the wound, examined it himself. “Knife. Nasty cut.”

            “Didn’t Harry steal his first love?”

            “Yes.”

            “How…ah.” Watson’s brow furrowed. “Women are like this openly too?”

            “They’re called lesbians.”

            Watson chuckled, then winced. “How poetic,” he managed.

            Sherlock’s lips quirked. “That’s _terrible_.”

            “You’ve heard of Sappho[1]? You’re one up on my Holmes.”

            Sherlock didn’t answer, concentrating instead on the wound.

            “How bad is it?” Watson asked. He could, of course, look himself, but he wanted this Sherlock, like his own, to tell him. Lie to him.

            He never could stand his own injuries. The old fear came back, the one that had grown in the war—that a wounded doctor was worthless.

            “Pretty direct hit to your lung,” Sherlock said. He got up and whirled around again, robe twisting behind him. Long fingers grasped instruments. Watson recognized a few.

            “Why am I here?”

            Sherlock knelt beside him again. “Lie still.” He filled a needle and injected it just below the wound. An icy coolness began to spread up his side. “I don’t know. You spoke to John that night, not me. Shouldn’t you be with him?”

            Watson shrugged. His vision was blurring again, but he saw the glint of gold on Sherlock’s hand, remembered the night in the park a few months back. “How long have you been married now?”

            “Seven months.” Sherlock’s touch was more gentle now, at least what Watson could still feel under the numbing drug. “You said you were married as well? How on earth did you manage that?”

            “Mycroft,” Watson said. His tongue felt too large for his mouth. “He took us to international waters.” He pulled on the chain around his neck. “Here.”

             Sherlock inspected the wedding ring. “Very clean.”

             “Of course,” Watson said. His vision was definitely blurring now. “Have to. S’all I can do for him. How I can show him I love him. It doesn’t always…doesn’t always seem like he knows.”  

            Sherlock took his hand, bright eyes worried. “He knows. He just doesn’t understand why.”

            That was the most foolish thing Watson had ever heard. “It’s _him_ ,” he explained. “Of course I love him.”  

            The bright eyes sparkled even more, and Sherlock let go of his hand again and bent over the wound. Watson felt strangely like he was floating, like the couch was melting away under him. He closed his eyes.

            “That should help,” Sherlock’s voice came from a distance. “It’s not completely fixed, but there shouldn’t be any infection.”

            “Thank you,” Watson managed.

            “ _Thank you.”_

* * *

 

When Watson’s eyes opened again Holmes was there, holding him against his chest, babbling frantically. When their eyes met, Holmes bellowed “HOPKINS! WHERE’S THAT DAMN CARRIAGE?!”

            “Coming, sir!” Hopkins’ voice was floaty too, and Watson wanted to close his eyes again.

            “No! Watson…John, stay with me! Can you hear me!”

            “Of course,” Watson slurred. “You’re yelling right in m’ear.”

            Holmes’ voice softened. “You’ll be alright,” he promised. “It’s not pleasant, but you’ll be on your feet soon—” His voice cut off with a gasp.

            “What?” Watson asked. For the first time, he risked looking down at his wound. His eyes widened.

            The wound looked a few days old. Healing, a slender row of stiches at the edges.

            “How?” Holmes’ face was indescribable.

            Watson took his hand, not caring who saw. “You helped me, dear. One of the many reasons I love you—you have the skill to heal a doctor.”

            Holmes pressed a quick, desperate kiss to the top of his head. “But how?”

            “I’ll tell you later,” Watson replied, the darkness gathering again. “I need to sleep.”

            “Rest now,” Holmes soothed. “I have you.”

            “Always,” Watson promised, and for the last time that day, sank into sleep.

            This time it was dreamless until he woke in Holmes’ room at Baker Street to bandaged ribs, a sleep-deprived husband and a saint of a landlady who could provide a spectacular breakfast at a moment’s notice.

 

 

 

 

_BBC_

John had lost track of time ages ago.

            Alone in the darkness for at least two days now, two days of relentless interrogation before that…he was going to miss Kitty’s first day of school. Strange, that…his daughter was a grown woman, going to early childhood education school, it didn’t matter. But he still wanted to be there, rather than this dark, pain-filled room where the only sound was a leaky faucet…

            He closed his eyes, even though that made no difference, and went to sleep.

            When he woke he screwed his eyes shut again immediately—bright sunlight was pouring in from somewhere nearby. Where was he now?

            Had Sherlock found him?

            The thought forced his eyes open. John stared around in complete shock, because clearly something had gone wrong.

            The room was clearly well-loved, well-used…people lived here.

            Why the hell, then, was it utterly Victorian?

            John heard a gasp and turned to see a tall, thin man sitting in the chair across the room. “So it’s happened again.”

            John remembered now; Sherlock calling him in an utter panic at Harry’s, saying that he’d just stitched up a dream. “He’s alright then?” he asked.

            “Indeed.” Holmes—it must be Holmes, no one could look that much like Sherlock—looked deeply concerned. “Are you injured?”

            “No,” John said. It wasn’t quite a lie. The group that had taken him was brutal but physical violence wasn’t exactly their _modus operandi_.

            One of them, on the other hand, had lost his temper. He’d taken it out on John’s legs.

            Holmes got up and approached carefully. “Are you certain?”

            “Couple of bruises,” John admitted. His eyes were too much like Sherlock’s, that was the trouble. “I’ve been kidnapped; not sure who by.”

            “How long?”

            “Not sure. At least three days.”

            “What can I do?”

            Ah, that was Sherlock all over. Simple, direct…and enough love in his voice to break your heart. “I dunno. Unless you can somehow tell me how to get out. Trouble is it’s pitch black there, and I was unconscious when they put me in.”

            “I don’t believe I can help with that,” Holmes replied. His hands fidgeted. “How are you holding up mentally?”

            “Honestly? I’m not sure.”

            “Maybe that’s why you’re here,” Holmes mused.

            “What do you mean?”

            For answer, Holmes came closer. Gently, he lifted John into a sitting position, just long enough to settle himself in. John leaned against the other man, sighing in relief. It had only been a few days, but he hadn’t realized how big a difference human contact would make.

            “You can stay here,” Holmes answered, deep voice rumbling against John’s ear. “It’s bright here, and quiet if you need it, or I can talk if you like.”

            “I don’t think I can…really process talk,” John admitted, surprised by how tired he suddenly felt. “Just…this is nice.”

            Holmes took his hand. “Your husband took care of mine,” he said softly. “I am happy to return the favour.”

            He didn’t speak again, and John, exhausted, was willing to close his eyes again, and just breathe in air that wasn’t dank and musty and awful.

            From a distance, he heard the sound of footsteps…heard shouting…was that someone calling his name? John opened his eyes and looked up. “I think they found me?”

            Holmes’ face was blurry. “I believe so. Give my regards to your husband.”

            “And mine to yours,” John answered, before he was pulled back into the dark, dank room with the leaky faucet. But he was resting in Sherlock’s shaking arms, and Kitty was sobbing “Dad, Dad, Dad!” over and over again. Perhaps it wasn’t such a terrible place after all.

           

 

[1] This is a terrible joke based on the fact that the word lesbian is a reference to Sappho, a lesbian poet from Lesbos (and others like her).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and shout out to Willow_Angel for the request!   
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	34. Christmas Cuff links (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's that? It's August, you say? It's not even close to Christmas?   
> I do what I want, says I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death (no one you know), reference to assisted suicide.

Cold and weary, Holmes finally managed to swing his bag down from the carriage and stalk off. He wasn't going to bother with slinging it to a comfortable position—no, that's what men did when they deserved to be happy. Which clearly, he didn't, or he wouldn't be stuck in Baker Street alone over Christmas.

It started when  Mrs. Hudson had suddenly been called away to nurse her sick sister. Of course she had to go—he and Watson could take care of themselves, after all. She'd even left them plenty of cold food, and instructions to go to Mrs. Turner up the street for Christmas dinner; the old boarding house would probably be full of strangers, but there'd be nice hot food.

Then Holmes had gotten called away on a case five days before Christmas. He hadn't wanted to go at all—he'd explained this to Watson three times in twenty minutes—but it was an important case. The fortunes of an old family depended on him discovering which one of the heirs was a murderer. Holmes hadn't felt the need to explain that it was his own godfather who'd just died, the very man who'd introduced him to the study of chemistry and logic when he was a boy of ten, and though the old man hadn't left him any money (per his own request), he was determined to discover his murderer.

Watson had been very cold about it, colder still when Holmes explained that Watson didn't need to go. Why subject both of them to an uncomfortable train ride?

Holmes had taken the train up north, where he discovered to his great grief that Lord Conan had indeed been killed—at his own request. His eldest daughter, Holmes' friend long ago and now the mother of five, tearfully confessed to increasing the dosage of her father's medicine after he'd begged to be put out of his misery.  Holmes commiserated with her, covered up suspicion by announcing his fervent belief that the old man had died of a heart attack, and the doctor's incompetence had led to this suspicious atmosphere. How he'd wished that Watson could have been there.

Just as he'd done so, there came a letter, delivered express. Watson had been invited by the Forrester's, Mary's old friends, to spend Christmas Day with them, and as Holmes clearly had no care for the season, he was going to accept.

Damn it all! Of course Watson was familiar with Holmes' contempt for many aspects of the Christmas holiday, but that was before...well, before this strange, new happiness the two of them had found. Holmes had barely wanted to leave in the first place, and now he didn't see much point in going back.

But he had his pride, damn it, and he wasn't going to stop his...what was the proper word for what Watson was to him? He wasn't going to stop John from having a good Christmas. So Holmes didn't respond to the letter and made arrangements to take the train home at the latest possible time Christmas Eve.

The train ride was long and hard, bitterly cold even wrapped up, and Holmes felt the beginnings of a fever seeping into his bones. He was coughing by the time he finally got to London. Spending an hour at the station attempting to catch the attentions of a cabby hardly improved matters, and now it was all Holmes could do to dig out two pound notes and hand them to his cabby. He waved off the thanks and stumbled up the seventeen stairs. The clock chimed midnight as he reached the top, and he groaned. "Happy Christmas," he muttered under his breath.

The fire was lit in the grate, and Holmes blinked in surprise. Surely John wasn't still awake?

His surprise deepened to see a Christmas tree in the corner, partly decorated with baubles. There were two wrapped packages underneath, one quite small and the other large. Out of habit, Holmes began to deduce what they were, then stopped. Watson wouldn't have wrapped them if he'd wanted Sherlock to know what they were.

The table was laid with two places, Mrs. Hudson's nicer plates and good silverware nestled amid sprigs of holly.

Holmes blinked hard. Perhaps Watson didn't intend to go away after all.

His gaze fell on the sofa, and he smiled. Watson was curled up there—he'd clearly fallen asleep without meaning to, head tilted awkwardly, body leaning towards the fire from lack of blanket. Holmes hesitated, fearing to wake him but wanting to cover him to keep from catching cold.

As fate would have it, he sneezed and Watson woke in surprise. "Sherlock?" he mumbled.

Holmes smiled, laying down his bag. "Happy Christmas, my dear John," he whispered, kneeling next to the sofa. "I'm home."

Watson smiled sleepily, reaching out a hand and caressing Sherlock's face. "Knew you would be. I got Christmas ready for you."

Holmes leaned into the touch. "You said you were going to go away for Christmas," he said quietly.

Watson blushed. "Never should have written that," he said gruffly. "I was angry with you for leaving, I thought perhaps you wouldn't care that this was—"

"Our first Christmas together?" Holmes finished. "Never." He swallowed guiltily. "I'm sorry John, I should have explained, I don't know why I didn't."

"Mycroft did," Watson replied. "I was summoned to see him."

Holmes chuckled, relief soothing the burn in his throat. "I don't understand why you always call it summoning."

"And I fail to see how you call it anything else."

Holmes laughed, then sobered. "I am sorry I didn't tell you. I thought it would be over with quickly, and I—"

"Was grieving and didn't want to spoil my holiday?"

Holmes swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "He was a good man," he whispered. "We hadn't written in some years, but I always thought that he would still be there, somehow."

Watson leaned forward to rest their foreheads together. "I'm sorry, dear." He pulled away with a frown. "You're warm, Sherlock."

"A touch of fever, I think," Holmes said quickly. "Nothing to worry about."

Watson didn't look entirely convinced. He stood, pulling Holmes up with him. "Go to bed, Sherlock. Christmas can wait until we've had some sleep."

Holmes nodded. He started to go, then turned and kissed Watson full on the mouth. Watson drew him close, and they didn't let go for a long time.

* * *

 

The next morning there were cold meats and warm eggs and coffee (Watson could cook a little bit), and a promise to dine with Mycroft at his home later that evening was revealed, an invitation that hadn't been extended since an incident with the turkey that Holmes had to swear would not be repeated. Gifts were opened: Holmes' large package was a brand new set of commonplace books of various sizes, perfect for any type of note taking, while Watson was charmed by his new inks, all in various colours.

And when they joined Mycroft at his table that evening, they both wore their new cufflinks, Holmes' set engraved with J.W., Watson's engraved S.H. It was an entirely suitable exchange of jewelry for two old friends.

And if they both wore those particular sets as often as they could, and certainly every Christmas day, no one thought anything of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed this holiday time! I swear there's a reference to one of them giving the other cuff links in canon, but I can't REMEMBER WHICH STORY. Whatevs. It's headcanon now. 
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Acme


	35. Modern Tales (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some modern headcanons, since I finally FINISHED THEM OMIGOSH MYSTRADE WHY YOU SO ANNOYING.

_Johnlock_

 

(NSFW): When they do start having sex, Sherlock mistakenly thinks that they are supposed to be having sex every night[1]. John agrees (though he doesn’t need it that often at all). They make it just over a week before they’re both too exhausted and cranky to cuddle, let alone have sex. The misunderstanding is eventually resolved, they both laugh about it and from then on they make love only when they both want to. There’s plenty of other things to do, after all.

Sherlock still rants about it sometimes.

* * *

    John has terrible memories of being alone in a hospital, and refuses to let Sherlock be in them by himself. Sherlock thinks visiting hours are dull. They generally end up sleeping on a cot because the nurses give up.

* * *

    Even before they got together John was determined to find Sherlock a book that he would enjoy and not toss away. He started reading his favourite books aloud, with varying amounts of response from Sherlock. John almost gave up until he awoke from a two-day coma to Sherlock’s deep, shaky voice reading _The Hobbit._ Tolkien, in all his triumphs and shortcomings (Sherlock has fought people over Samwise Gamgee) becomes one of their favourite entertainment sources: their first anniversary they watched the entirety of the Extended Editions. The quotes on their wedding rings are from Sam’s speech.

* * *

     They never go to bed angry. They’re both too scared of waking up to an empty bed.

 

_John_

 

            John discovered he was bi because of a boy named Victor Trevor. He never shares the story with Sherlock, or he would know that Sherlock solved his murder.

* * *

           Two years after his marriage, John receives a call from his sister. Harry calls from a rehab clinic and shares some stories about their childhood that John was too young to remember, stories that make some of her behaviour make more sense. It’s not an excuse, and it’s a long road to reconciliation, but the Watsons do, eventually, start to feel like siblings.

* * *

           On their marriage certificate, it shows that John changed his name to John Hamish Watson Holmes. He keeps his own name for professional reasons, but Sherlock calls him ‘Mr. Holmes’ as often as he can.

* * *

          John has been keeping an album since just after he moved into 221B. When he has a quiet day, he looks through it, remembering that all the people in it are family, and he marvels at how lucky he's become. 

 

 

_Sherlock_

 

          Sherlock first sees the term demisexual in the fanfiction bookmarks of a kidnapping victim[2]. He deletes the definition. Then he meets John, and suddenly that word explains everything.

* * *

          Sherlock doesn’t truly approve of Mycroft and Greg’s relationship, but that’s mainly because he now has to share both of his favourite people that are not John or Mrs. Hudson. It’s a minor comfort that he’s sharing them with each other.

* * *

          Sherlock stopped taking drugs after he and John started dating. He didn’t need them anymore; there was plenty of rush from being in love.

* * *

          Sherlock keeps his wedding ring almost obsessively clean. He’s delighted to realize that John does the same.

 

 

_Mystrade_

 

            The reactions to John and Sherlock’s relationship were as varied as they were passionate. When people found out about Mycroft and Greg, on the other hand, there were only two. It was either “didn’t know you were gay,” or “you two match”.

* * *

            A relationship between two workaholic, emotionally mellow men doesn’t sound like it will last. As a matter of fact, Greg actually begins planning to retire on time, and Mycroft learns to be romantic.

* * *

           There were occasional threats to Greg because of Mycroft’s work. Mycroft always ensured that anyone making such threats had to apologize to Greg personally before they were…dealt with.

* * *

           Greg’s ex-wife finds herself in constant financial troubles and her hairdressers keep ignoring her directions. Greg finds this quite sweet…and a little alarming.

 

 

_Greg_

 

            Greg has always tried to go with the flow (which is why he can handle Sherlock so well). So when Mycroft asked him if their regular coffee could perhaps be held at a more romantic location, he didn’t panic or even ask if he was sure. He could learn to love Mycroft. What he learned instead was that he already did.

* * *

            It takes a lot of smarts to be a Detective Inspector. What takes more is being married to a Holmes, and learning when a case file is an apology and a request to close the curtains is a hint to go to bed. He learns.

* * *

            Greg loves music and poetry, but he’s utterly rubbish at writing his own. He can, however, appreciate Mycroft’s attempts fully.

* * *

           Greg’s never been too keen on sex (that was part of his troubles with his ex-wife). To his relief, Mycroft isn’t either. When they do sleep together, it’s passionate and loving and everything it’s supposed to be…but honestly, one time can hold them for months.

 

_Mycroft_

 

            Mycroft loves labels; he organizes, he files, it’s what he does. On the other hand, he refuses to find a label for his own orientation. He doesn’t like the idea of filing a part of himself away—he likes the idea of analyzing how he feels about Greg even less.

* * *

           When Mycroft starts trying to exercise, it’s not to impress Greg. It’s to give them a few more years together.  

* * *

           In a moment of sentimentality, Mycroft buys Greg a sculpture of a goldfish. Greg doesn’t get it until Sherlock explains.

* * *

          Mycroft is secretly delighted by his desk job, not the least because it means he can wear his wedding ring without worrying about losing it.

 

 

_Real Office Romance (Molly/Mike)_

 

            Mike and Molly become the hottest topic of discussion at St. Bart’s. It changes to ‘ohmigod did you see Sherlock Holmes punch out that bloke for saying Molly settled?’

* * *

            Mike never imagined that someone like Molly could love someone like him—ordinary, steady, sweet and far too fond of football. Molly doesn’t understand how it took her so long to realize she wanted him.

* * *

            Lily and Jacob are their only blood children, but when the twins are eight they decide to become foster parents. Sherlock and Kitty find children among the Homeless Network, and a little bureaucratic meddling means their house is full of kids for years. Mike retires to become a stay-at-home father.

* * *

            Mike is insanely proud of Molly. Molly is insanely proud of Mike. When they get drunk, they try to outdo each other with praise.

 

 

_Molly_

 

            Molly enjoys being a mother, and she enjoys her job. She juggles both efficiently, and both her work and her children are fully aware that she loves them equally.

* * *

            Before her mother dies, Molly gets up the courage to ask her about how her father died. She’s not at all surprised to hear her mother made a desperate attempt to protect her. She’s just surprised that the police let them go.

* * *

           Molly continues to sneak Sherlock into the morgue. Her bosses pretend they don’t know what she’s doing.

* * *

           Molly never liked Jim Moriarty. She used him entirely to make Sherlock jealous.

 

_Mike_

 

            Mike had resigned himself to a single life well before he introduced John to Sherlock. He just didn’t see why anyone would put up with him.

* * *

            Despite his joke to John, Mike loves to teach, and he’ll often borrow John’s case stories to illustrate different aspects of medicine. He had Sherlock in as a guest speaker once. Once.

* * *

            Mike proposed to Molly in the middle of the night, when he woke up from a dream that involved licorice, pink elephants and a rather large tuba. To this day they can’t figure it out, but those all made their way into their wedding favours.

* * *

           Mike never thought he’d be a good dad. His seventeen children, two blood and fifteen adopted, say otherwise.

 

_Mrs. Hudson_

 

            Mrs. Hudson was well aware that Sherlock and John wanted two bedrooms when they first moved in. She was also well aware that they wouldn’t need them long.

* * *

            Martha Sissons was very much in love with her husband, and even though she disapproved of the cartel she would have stood by him. It was only when she caught Frank with another woman, and found out about the rest of them, that she wished she’d listened to her best friend.

* * *

            Despite her own experiences, Mrs. Hudson enjoys attending weddings. So far her favourite has been Mike and Molly’s, though Kitty and Stan’s was wildly fun.

* * *

            Mrs. Hudson considers herself the matriarch of her Baker Street Clan. Mrs. Holmes has no objection.

 

 

_Moriarty_

 

            Jim Moriarty wasn’t on Carl Powers’ swim team. He was, however, on the chess team that went up the same week.

* * *

            Jim never let himself love Sebastian Moran. Why love something you knew you had to throw away, no matter how loyal?

* * *

            Jim was not in love with Sherlock Holmes. But he wanted him.

* * *

           Jim is a psychopath. He’s been off the charts of every test. Sometimes, just for fun, he’ll try to get a normal person’s answers. He’s only managed it once.

 

[1] I thought this was true when I was younger, and I was utterly horrified by the idea.

[2] Demisexuality, for those who are unfamiliar, is an orientation where you are not attracted to anyone without first having an emotional connection. I identify as demi, and I found the definition in a fanfic. It’s called ‘Bedtime for 221B’ by akisura12 on fanfiction.net; the chapter in question is chapter 5, ‘Asexual’, if anyone’s interested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed, and good luck to those of you who are going back to school. (Or who started a while ago...you have my sympathy).  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	36. Twitterpated (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lovely spring day for the lovers. This is a few months after 'The Dream'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twitterpated, by the way, is a reference to Bambi--it's basically puppy love.

The bitterly cold April had finally ended, and the first few days of May were soft and warm. Delighted by the turn in weather, Holmes and Watson had spent the entire day outside, going so far as to take their dinner and eat in the park. That drew some stares, but Holmes didn’t mind. They’d done far stranger things in public.

            After dinner they relaxed on the bench and watched people walk by. Holmes kept up a steady commentary of who was walking where and why, while Watson listened attentively. After a few minutes, Holmes slowed down, unaccountably worried that he was boring Watson, but his companion nudged him impatiently. “No, go on Holmes, whose husband is that woman seeing?”

            So Holmes continued to talk, deducing without thinking about it. In between strangers, he observed Watson closely.

            Months after that strange night, Holmes was still surprised by the change in his…well, in his John’s face. They were subtle, small and insignificant to anyone that hadn’t seen that face every day for years (Holmes swallowed his guilt about the three years he hadn’t)…but they were clear as the blue sky to him.

            John’s eyes were brighter now. Holmes knew that was the stuff of romantic fiction, but it was true. His gaze was sharper, looking at everything as quickly as possible. The crinkles by his eyes were deeper now, more practiced in the art of smiling; the lines around his mouth were the same. His forehead still had worry lines, but it was smooth most of the time. His cheeks had lost their worrisome hollows. Even his ears seemed more intent, more keen to pick up the clues in conversation.

            They were alarming, these changes. How could love show itself so clearly upon a human face and not be seen or misconstrued? As a practiced observer, Holmes knew that each of these traits—bright, inquisitive eyes that followed the beloved, smiling more in joy, worry being kept to a minimum, interest in life encouraging better nutrition—each of them added a part to a final, incontrovertible deduction. The man was in love, obviously. Holmes knew that there were policemen who could deduce as much, stupid as they were, and that worried him. Was it obvious that Watson had an object of affection? Was it obvious, God forbid, that it was him?

            Not for the first time, Holmes wished that he could live in the strange future the other Holmes had described. The idea that men could walk freely hand in hand without censorship; that marriage, indeed, was possible? Holmes had never wanted anything so badly.

            It was strange to think that it was Watson who’d taught him to want in the first place, and how so many of the things he wanted now were out of reach. Hopelessly, fantastically out of reach.

            He was still glad that he knew how to want.

            When it finally grew too dark to see, they began walking back to Baker Street. As they were nearly alone on the street, Holmes decided it was safe to confide his deductions to Watson. “Your face is very expressive, my dear Watson,” he finished. “Perhaps it would be safer to…control it, somehow?”

            Watson started shaking. Alarmed, Holmes stopped walking, drew him into an alley. “John? What—” Then he glared as Watson burst out laughing. “This isn’t funny!”

            “Yes it is,” Watson gasped. “It is very funny indeed, my dear Holmes.”

            “Pray explain,” Holmes said coldly. He’d only been trying to help, after all, and he didn’t appreciate being mocked.

            Watson seemed to hear this, and he stopped laughing. “I apologize, Holmes, but everything you just described…I see it in your face as well.”

            “Do you?” Holmes asked.

            “Of course. Well, not quite the same, and I couldn’t quite articulate each change, but…” Watson took a quick glance around the dark alley, then put his hand on Holmes’ face, cool in the growing chill. “I can see the change in you too, my dear.”  

            Holmes leaned into the touch for the briefest minute. “What are we to do, then?” he said in frustration. “If someone else notices and understands—”

            “I do not believe they will,” Watson interrupted. “I have known you for years, Holmes. I’ve lived with you for…many of them. I am used to reading your face. I know of no others who are so familiar, except for those who already know our secret.”

            Holmes knew he was right. “We still have to be vigilant.”

            “Of course.” Watson’s voice was steady as they made their way out of the alley. “I would do no less for you.”

            When they were back home, Holmes stopped dead in his tracks at the bottom of the stairs.

            “Holmes?” Watson asked.

            “I just…you said that you see in my face what I see in yours,” Holmes said.

            “Yes?”

            “Then why…” Holmes struggled to articulate what he meant. “We have new worry lines, but we do not worry as much. And that is correct, but I worry…I worry deeply about the consequences of this love, John. Why do I appear less anxious?”

            Watson considered this for a moment. “Do you know, Holmes, I believe we worry less because we have less to fear.”

            Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Explain.”

            Watson blushed. “Well  now I fear that you and I will be discovered and imprisoned for our sins.”

            “This is not sin,” Holmes corrected him. “I refuse to believe that.”

            “It is in the eyes of our society,” Watson reminded him. “But that…that fear is nothing compared to what I lived with for years.”

            “And what was that?”

            “Fear of letting you see how I felt,” Watson said simply. “Fear of your reaction, your rejection. Fear of the woman I loved, fear that I betrayed her in thought if not in deed. Fear of losing you…though that fear remains.”

            Holmes reached out and took the doctor’s hands.

            “Compared to those,” Watson whispered, “this fear is nothing at all. And so I enjoy my life far more.”

            Holmes lifted Watson’s hands to his lips and kissed them reverently. “As ever Watson, you are a conductor of light.”  

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed! I know I did; having Holmes wax sentimental is really fun to write.   
> Now just a heads up to everyone; I'm coming to the end of my list of stories (DON'T PANIC--I have at least 7 more weeks of stuff). I've also got quite a few longer ideas in the works, as well as some shorter stories which are complete and will be posted this month (both SPN and Sherlock).   
> What does that mean? Well, when I get to the end of the list I'll be marking this series as complete (probably until season 4 comes out at least). So if you've got any prompts you want to give now, send them to me by all means! I'd just like to have an idea of how many chapters I have left so I can do some planning. Prompts will be open for sure until I'm done posting things (and I'll let you know when that's coming up).  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	37. Cats and Dogs (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitty and Stan have met. John and Sherlock need to invest in earplugs (not for the reason you think).

             John leaned his forehead against their bedroom wall and groaned.

            "What did I do to deserve this?" he moaned. "What?"

            He looked up to see Sherlock come in and slam the door.

            "I swear to God I'm going to wring both of their necks."

            John grimaced. "They're not still at it?"

            Even through the closed door he could hear for himself that Kitty and Stan were still arguing furiously.

            John wished he'd known better three weeks ago, the first time he'd introduced the two. He'd thought that his adopted daughter, who got along with nice people just as well as she destroyed bad people, might enjoy Stan's company. Sherlock had taken the young Inspector under his wing, and he'd agreed that Kitty and Stan would make an excellent team.

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

            From the moment Kitty and Stan met, they'd begun sniping at each other. In Stan's defence, he couldn't have known that Kitty abhorred anything to do with Brontë, so beginning a conversation with a Jane Eyre quote was a mistake, hardly malicious.

            Kitty, on the other hand, knew full well that the Inspector hated Katy Perry (oh, how John wished now that he hadn't let that slip), and started singing her latest song at the top of her lungs.

            It had gone brutally, quickly downhill from there. They couldn't work together; it was as simple as that.

            John had spoken to both of them quite sternly about professionalism and politeness, and to a certain extent had succeeded. Until, of course, Sherlock had tried to help, and managed to insult both of them by saying that they were behaving like children. Kitty had taken this to mean that her insults weren't up to snuff—Stan had been furious to be called a child.

            ("Damn it, Sherlock! He's sensitive about his height!"

            "That wasn't what I meant at all. Besides, he's taller than you."

            Sherlock had spent the next three weeks doing the laundry.)

            Now they just kept the two of them separated as often as they could. It was a shame, John thought as the argument died down outside.  If the two of them hadn't had such a bad beginning, it might have been a wonderful friendship. They were very alike in some ways—both terribly keen and clever, both anxious to look after the victims and survivors. They both enjoyed the same sorts of books, too (except Brontë). Yes, it was a shame.

            "I don't know whose side to take," Sherlock confessed. John nodded. Kitty, of course, was their daughter, and had been for nearly three years now. But Stan, though newer, had no family other than Dimmock, who was currently busy trying to decide between a college boyfriend and a new lady. They couldn't just stop letting him come over.

            "I don't think we should take sides, dear," John answered. "I think our best hope is to see them both. They might change their minds, after all. I just wish they'd give each other a chance."

            A crash came from the living room. Seriously alarmed now—had they escalated to physical violence? That was a far more serious matter—John yanked the door open and rushed out. He'd expected to hear screaming or shouts of pain. Come to think of it, it had been a moment since there'd been any shouting at all...

            He stopped dead at the entryway.

            Kitty and Stan were...John blinked. Blinked again.

            The crash had come from a tea cup (John winced, it was one of Mrs. Hudson's favourite teacups). Its shattered remains were now on the floor next to the table where it had been sitting, quite away from the edge. It shouldn't have fallen on its own.

            And it hadn't.

            Sherlock was next to him now, and his cry of shock confirmed John's tentative deductions.

            Really though, he hadn't needed his husband's confirmation. Kitty's shirt was rumpled; Stan's tie was on the ground, and they were both breathing heavily.

            To round it off, Kitty's lipstick was on Stan's neck.

            "What...the hell..." Sherlock managed.

            "Dad!" Kitty straightened her shirt. "Um, this is...not what it looks like?"

            "It looks like you two were snogging and knocked the tea cup over," John offered.

            Stan blushed. "Well that might be...exactly what happened. We didn't mean to!"

            "Snog or break something?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

            John gestured to the sofa. "Right, I think we deserve an explanation."

            Kitty and Stan sat down, rather pointedly two feet apart.

            John crossed his arms and waited. When no answer came a moment later, he asked, "so how long, then?"

            "Four weeks," Kitty mumbled.

            "Four—oh, stupid, stupid," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You already knew each other, didn't you?"

            "We met at the library," Stan explained. He was still blushing under his newly grown beard. "She was there with Lily and Jacob. It was my day off—"

            "Stan, they don't need the whole bloody story!"

            "Actually, I'd appreciate it," John said. He bit his lip to keep it from twitching. "Go on, then."

            Kitty sighed. She took Stan's hand absentmindedly. "I dunno, Dad, we...well, we liked each other, so we agreed to meet up for a date. You know, just to see. I didn't realize that he was ‘Hopkins’ until he told me his last name. Then I told him who I was, and..."

            "It's my fault," Stan blurted out. "I was afraid."

            "Of what?" Sherlock asked. "Of us?" His face grew more serious when Stan looked away. "Why on earth?

            Stan looked away. "I reckon I'm not what most fathers want for their daughters."

            "You're reckoning wrong," John said firmly. "So you decided to keep it secret? That doesn't quite explain the shouting."

            Kitty twisted her hair. "Well...it's just that...it wasn't all to keep it a secret."

            "Ah, you enjoy verbal sparring as foreplay," Sherlock guessed.

            Kitty buried her face in Stan's shoulder. "Dad!"

            John couldn't stop himself anymore and he burst out laughing. Kitty peeked up just enough to glare at him. "You're both horrible," she moaned.

            John shook his head. "You're horrible yourself, my girl. Why didn't you tell us? We were hoping you two would like each other. Well, not necessarily in this way, but we're quite pleased. Aren't we Sherlock?" he nudged his husband.

            "Quite," Sherlock said sincerely. And then, in the same tone, "but I will hunt you down if you ever hurt her, do you understand me young man?"

            Stan gulped and nodded.

            "And Kitty?" John raised his eyebrows. "Do be good to the lad, eh? He's a good sort."

            Kitty smiled at Stan. "He's the best sort," she answered, kissing Stan's cheek.

            "Is he the sort that'll take a frying pan for you?" John asked.

            "What d' you mean?"

            "That was one of Mrs. Hudson's best set," John clarified. He chuckled as Kitty and Stan's faces took on identical expressions of horror.

            "Don't be cruel, John," Sherlock said mildly. "Your Uncle Mycroft has a similar set he doesn't use, Kitty. I'm sure if you asked nicely you could go and borrow one. You'd better be quick, though. Mrs. Hudson will be back in an hour."

            As one, the two leapt up and scrambled for the door.

            John leaned back against Sherlock. "You do realize you're sending them to the British Inquisition for Dating, right?"

            Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist. "Oh my dear John, of course I do. Isn't this one of the fun parts of being a parent?"

            John smirked. "I'll text Greg, make sure he's home."

            "Now this, John, is why I fell in love with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, they might need earplugs for the traditional reason :) C'mon, you didn't think I'd actually not have them together, did you? Silly.  
> Reminder that prompts are still up and open!  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	38. Winkin Headcanons (Crossover)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few thoughts on the lovely couple of Kitty and Stan, now known as Winkin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU CAN ALL FIGHT ME ABOUT THE PAIRING NAME I MADE THE TAG I GET TO NAME IT.

**_Victorian_ **

_Winkin_

            Once she becomes Mrs. Hopkins, Kitty quickly makes friends with the other policemen’s wives. They’d been cold to her before her marriage, worried that a woman in the station would steal their husband’s attentions. Stan was quietly, vindictively happy to find out that one of the worst, Mrs. Riley, discovered her husband in bed with their maid. (He does eventually become ashamed of that).

* * *

 

            Stan often consults with Kitty on cases he gets stumped with. When the two of them can’t come up with an answer after a pot of tea, they go to Holmes and Watson.

* * *

 

            Stan buys Kitty pretty clothes as often as he can afford; he thinks she deserves all the beautiful things in the world. Kitty learns to cook from Mrs. Hudson, because if she’s going to be making meals they’ll be the ones he likes best.

* * *

 

            Seven years after Billy’s born, to their complete surprise (Watson laughs and asks them what they could expect; it was bound to happen the way they ‘carried on’) Kitty becomes pregnant again. She delivers a daughter; they name her Rachel for Stan’s sister.

_Stan_

            Stan knew who Kitty was long before she told him; he did, after all, read Dr. Watson’s stories. He thought she was awfully brave, and he made sure to double-check all cases of vitriol throwing for extenuating circumstances.

* * *

 

            When Stan was thirteen his father died. He was twenty-two before he stopped looking over his shoulder for the next blow.

* * *

 

            Stan is hired by the Foreign Office during the Great War. It’s enough to keep him from the battlefield, and he knows he owes his life to the last deed of an old, childless man trying to save his brother heartache.

* * *

 

            Stan wasn’t born female. The idea of being a different gender than his sex was unthinkable; then again, so was the idea of two men in love.  

_Kitty_

            From a young age, Kitty hated her beauty. It disappointed the father who wanted a son, it made her stepmother throw her out, it caught the attention of Gruner. Stan is the only one who ever made ‘beautiful’ sound like a good thing.

* * *

 

            Kitty likes to go to the park and feed the ducks with her children. It reminds her of the happier years of her childhood, when she would do the same with her mother.

* * *

 

            Unbeknownst to anyone except Watson, Kitty went to see Gruner in prison. She didn’t speak, just watched him look around blindly, demanding to know who was laughing.

* * *

 

            Kitty waits until everyone in her house has fallen asleep before she goes to bed. She likes to have a moment alone to savour her new happiness.

****

**_BBC_ **

_Winkin_

            Because of their preferred method of foreplay[1], it can be difficult for Stan to realize that Kitty is genuinely angry. He learns after a few nights on John and Sherlock’s couch. (Yes, she was _that_ mad).

* * *

 

            They’re both careful about going too fast; there are too many scars to uncover them all at once. Nevertheless, by their first anniversary they’re looking at a flat together.

* * *

 

            Kitty never joins Stan at the Yard, despite Greg’s urging; she prefers working the way her dads do. Her child care job keeps her busy during the day, but when Stan’s off-duty they go round to Baker Street and h

* * *

elp John and Sherlock with their private cases. Stan calls it double-dating. Greg calls the Holmes’ a bad influence.

* * *

 

            Kitty, despite loving kids, doesn’t think she’ll be a good mum. Stan doesn’t think he’ll ever be a father. They’re both wrong.

 

_Stan_

            When Stan was still Eliza, he was told to be a physicist. When he went to uni at his father’s order, he dropped both the gender and the dream someone else had given him, and signed up for police training instead.

* * *

 

            Stan loves Jane Eyre, but hates Wuthering Heights. Kitty allows this as a compromise. They both enjoy Jane Steele when it comes out.

* * *

 

            Roger Dimmock is rather cold to Stan at first, but he gets the pronouns right and offers him lodging and a job, so Stan puts up with it. It takes about six days to realize that Dimmock thought he was their mutually disliked cousin Stephanie, not ‘Eliza’. They’d been mistaken for twins as children, so Stan managed to forgive the confusion. He still never lets Roger live it down. (“How the hell did you think I was Steph?” “Your…hair was different.” “You don’t say!”)

            Stan calls John Dad by accident. A few weeks later, he calls Sherlock Dad on purpose.

_Kitty_

            Kitty chose to run from home at sixteen. She chose to knock on the door of a lady who took great care of her girls and get herself a job. When the lady died three years later, without ever knowing that Kitty was underage, Kitty chose to go solo. When she met Bertie, she chose to go home with him on her night off. It was the last choice she made for years.

* * *

 

            Kitty Winter hardly remembers being Kate Summers. Her old life was so long ago it feels like a different person. That’s part of why she understands Stan so well.

* * *

 

            Kitty likes men, women and everyone in between. But she only loves Stan.

* * *

 

            Kitty can’t sing, but she can play the piano. The first thing she and Stan buy for their flat is an old piano, and they make music together.  

 

[1] See ‘Cats and Dogs’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...hopefully there will be no pistols at dawn :)   
> Seriously though, the name is Winkin the end k thx byyyyyyyyeeeee  
> Plus it reminds me of the Winkin Blinkin and Nod song and it's an awesome lullaby.   
> Cheers,  
> Acme   
> P.S. Jane Steele, by the way, is a fantastic book that everyone should read. It's by Lyndsay Faye, who also wrote Dust and Shadow, which is the best Sherlock Holmes story I've ever read. (May have a slight author crush)


	39. True Normal (Victorian) (for annegirlblythe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy comes to visit his grandfathers at the cottage. He has a few questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For annegirlblythe, whose request helped me shape this chapter.   
> Also, don't read this listening to True Colors. Don't do it.

            It was Grandfather John that met Billy at the station in the pouring rain. The old man—that troubled Billy, since when did he think of Grandpa John as an old man?—was beaming, holding his coat over his head. He pulled Billy into a tight hug and then grabbed his suitcase and hustled them into a small carriage. “How was the train?” he asked, once they were both settled.

            “It was fun!” Billy said enthusiastically. He pushed down the slight worry he’d felt, pulling out of the station, watching Rachel try to run and catch up. A whole week without Mum and Dad…but he had his grandfathers. This would be fun!

            “Wonderful. I’ve always loved trains, myself. One of the best parts of working with Holmes.”          

            “Tell me a story, Grandfather?” Billy asked hopefully. That was what he missed most about Grandfather John—his endless supply of adventures.

            Grandfather John laughed. “I don’t think we’ve got time before we get back to the cottage, now do we?”

            “Tell one anyways!”

            Grandfather John was halfway through a story about a runaway train when they got to the cottage. Billy gasped with delight—Dad had sketched it quickly for him, but he’d never seen it. It was beautiful—small and all gray bricks with neat flowers all around. The rain was still coming down, but Grandfather Sherlock came out anyways, his lips turned into one of his special smiles. Billy leapt out, nearly knocking him down. “Sorry, Grandfather,” he gasped.

            Grandfather Sherlock shook his head. “Billy, lad, I swear you’ve gotten twice as tall. You haven’t eaten your sister, have you?” He threw a purse to the driver, who tipped his cap under the waterproof drape.

            “No,” Billy said, grinning as he took his suitcase from Grandfather John. “Rachel sends her love, so do Mum and Dad. If Dad hadn’t been ill…”

            “Well, we’ll have you all down for a visit later,” Grandfather John said, “and we’ll all be ill if we stay out in this rain much longer.”

            The three of them went inside. Billy marvelled at the little house. He’d always thought that Baker Street was his grandfathers made rooms; they fit so beautifully. But this was their own place, and every little thing from the blue sofa to the thick drapes (in case Grandfather Sherlock had a headache) was perfectly them.

            “It’s brilliant!” he cried.

            “I’m glad you think so,” Grandfather John said. “Come on, then, we’ll get you unpacked, shall we?”

            Billy loved his room on sight. It was bright and warm, the same wallpaper as his room at home, and a huge bed. Grandfather John laid the case on the ground by the bed. “Need any help?”          

            Billy shook his head. “I can do it, Grandad.”

            “I’ll go help Holmes with luncheon then.” His grandfather left the room and Billy set about unpacking. He took a big armful, dumped it in the top drawer, then took another and put it in the bottom drawer. Finished. Easy.

            Curious about the rest of the cottage, Billy peered next door. There was a study there; partly for Grandfather John (writing desk), partly for Grandfather Sherlock (music stand and chemical instruments). There was another door that, when opened, proved to lead outside to a small garden. There was only one door left. Billy peeked in. Another large, cheerful bedroom, with…two beds?

            “Billy?”

            Billy spun around, feeling guilty for some reason. “Hello, Grandfather Sherlock. I was just looking around.”

            His grandfather smiled. “What do you think? Your mother did much of the decorating.”

            “Really? But all these rooms are so…so like you and Grandfather John.”

            “Well, your mother’s a very intelligent lady.”

            “You still don’t like saying that, do you?” Billy had heard that Grandfather Sherlock used to think rather badly of women. Mum said he just didn’t know many good ones. That must be why he never got married.

            His grandfather looked sheepish. “Well…I’m not proud of it.”

            “It’s a bad habit,” Billy said, trying to be comforting. “You’ll find it easier as you go along.” He looked around, trying to distract him. “Do you and Grandfather John both sleep in here?”

            He watched in shock as his grandfather’s face went a bit pale. “Well…yes, we do. We’re getting on in years, Billy. We thought it might be best…and anyways, this cottage is still quite small. It gives us space for the study.”

            “Oh, okay. Doesn’t Grandfather John snore, though?”

            Grandfather Sherlock laughed a bit, but he still looked a bit nervous. “If he does I’ve never noticed. Now, come along. Your grandfather’s got luncheon ready.”

            “Alright,” Billy said easily. He could tell he’d upset his grandfather. “Tell me about your bees, Grandfather Sherlock.”

            That got the conversation going again, and they discussed first the bees and then the garden all through the meal.

            But Grandfather Sherlock kept looking sideways at Billy. Billy tried to smile back, but he knew something was wrong.

            “Can I go for a walk?” he asked. “It’s stopped raining.”

            “Of course,” Grandfather John said. “Mind you stay off the rocks, though. They’ll be slippery.”

* * *

 

            The beach was soggy and a bit grim, but Billy went walking anyways. He had to think.

            What on earth was wrong with his grandfathers sharing a room? They were best mates, after all. And they were getting older, so wouldn’t it make sense? If they were sick or something? (Billy pushed the idea violently aside—his grandfathers weren’t that old, were they?) Anyways, the cottage was small, and they needed room for the study, for a guest room…

            But why not make the guest room a regular bedroom? Was it because of him, or his parents? Billy wouldn’t mind sleeping on the sofa, and Mum and Dad could get rooms in the village—it wasn’t that far, after all.

            No, there was something else.

            Billy turned around. He was getting hungry.

            When he got back to the cottage, something told him to be quiet. Creeping up to the window, he could hear his grandfathers.

            “John, we need to come up with something!”

            “Hasn’t Kitty told him yet?”

            “Why should she? He’s just a boy, he doesn’t need to know!”

            “Sherlock, we can trust him. We could trust Rachel, for heaven’s sake. Why not a boy who’s proven himself worthy of a secret?”

            There was a pause. Billy listened intently.

            “Oh.”

            “You see?” Grandfather Sherlock sounded miserable.

            “Oh…Sherlock, he won’t.”    

            “And if he does?”

            “He hasn’t been raised that way.”

            “You and I are both well aware that influence isn’t only parental.”

            “He…he wouldn’t.” Billy flinched—the heartache in Grandfather John’s voice was horrible. “He knows us. He loves us.”

            “Will he continue to do so?”

            “Oh God…” Grandfather John didn’t speak for a moment. Billy heard a choked sob. Sickened, he stumbled away from the cottage. He couldn’t go in now, he had to give them some time, time to compose themselves.

            So they were in love, was that it? That was all it could be; Mum had told him a bit of her past; he knew a lot about the horrid things people did to each other. No one kept secrets from him anymore.

            Except, apparently, that his grandfathers were in love.

            Should he have seen that coming? Billy thought about it. He was, after all, being trained by both his Mum and Grandfather Sherlock to be observant. But if everyone was trying to keep it secret…and he hadn’t known men could be in love with each other. Billy decided he could be forgiven missing that.

            But how could he ever hate his grandfathers?

            Billy had a flash of insight. Obviously, he had to prove that he didn’t

* * *

 

.           Supper was quiet that night. Billy picked at the food, even though it was quite good. It just took too much effort to pretend that he didn’t notice Grandfather Sherlock’s red eyes, or the pain in Grandfather John’s.

            After supper they went into the sitting room. Billy deliberately took one chair and threw his feet up on the other, barely managing to reach. It left his grandfathers on the sofa. Billy sighed as they sat on opposite sides of the sofa, doing everything they could not to touch.

            Billy opened one of the books he’d brought and waited, hoping they’d relax on their own, but as the clock ticked they didn’t even pick up books themselves. Or talk. Or look at each other.

            Billy tried to read for a few lines, and then looked out of the corner of his eye. He saw Grandfather John throw Grandfather Sherlock a pained look.

            A wave of remorse swept over Billy. He was trying to trick them, but he hadn’t done anything to show that they…well, that they were safe. After all the times they’d protected him!

            He pushed himself up. Grandfather Sherlock looked up, startled as Billy came forward, but he willingly extended his hand when Billy offered his. Without speaking, Billy took Grandfather John’s hand, and brought their hands together. He waited until they were holding on, then let go.

            Grandfather John was staring at him in utter shock.

            “You looked like Mum and Dad do when they hold hands,” Billy explained. “Only you weren’t, so I fixed it.”

            “Billy—” Grandfather Sherlock pressed his lips together, looking almost as if he might cry.

            “It’s alright, Grandfather,” Billy said simply. “I know. And I won’t tell.” He paused. “You know, you can call him John in front of me now.”

            His grandfather pulled him into a tight hug, and Billy was pleased to see that he didn’t let go of Grandfather John’s hand to do so. “Thank you, child,” he whispered.

            Billy leaned his cheek against the old man’s. “You’re welcome.” He paused. He really wanted to ask, but…

            Grandfather John smiled. He swung their intertwined hands over Billy’s head so he was perched between them. “Sherlock, I think the lad wants to hear our story. And I think he might just deserve to hear the whole thing.”

            “I couldn’t agree more, my dear…John.” Billy felt a strange lump in his throat; he’d never heard anyone’s name spoken with that much reverence. “Well, Billy, you’ll hear a story tonight you must never tell. Your Mum and Dad know most of it, but we never have told one part, not to anyone.”

            “And you’ll tell me?” Billy asked, eyes round.

            “Of course,” Grandfather Sherlock said seriously. “You’re our best listener. Now, some of this might be hard to believe, but it is the truth and nothing but. Alright?”

            “Okay,” Billy said.

            “Well, it was a stormy night over twenty years ago, and we’d just come home from a supper with our clients…”

* * *

 

            Holmes was the first one up the next day. He smiled as John snored next to him; he hadn’t lied to Billy exactly. He knew that John snored, but it never bothered him.

            He got out of bed and went for a walk. It was a windy, overcast day, and the bees were buzzing. Perfect, in other words. Holmes closed his eyes and took a deep breath. They’d been so worried about the visit, unable to write to Kitty and Stan properly about their concerns. Kitty had just told them that it would be alright. Holmes shook his head. What had he done to deserve such a wonderful daughter? Truly, the folly of thinking all women were like his nanny so long ago…well, perhaps the bitter taste of being proven wrong, no matter how happy an occasion, was penance enough.

            When he returned to the house, John was making tea. Smiling, Holmes came up behind his husband and wrapped his arms around him. “Good morning, my dear,” he whispered. He pressed his lips to the nape of John’s neck. “Did you sleep well?”

            “Sherlock?” John sounded utterly surprised, and Holmes didn’t blame him. He’d never done that before. He did it again, and John placed his hand over Holmes’. “I slept well, yes.”

            Holmes heard the floorboards creak and released John reluctantly as Billy came into the kitchen. “Mornin’,” he mumbled.

            “Good morning,” John said. “Would you like tea?”

            “Sure.” Billy looked up and seemed to notice how close they were together. “Oh no, you’re not going to be all fluttery like Mum and Dad, are you?”

            “I thought you didn’t have a problem with it,” John said lightly.

            “I don’t like _anyone_ being fluttery.” Billy crossed his arms. “But if you must, you must.”

            Sherlock laughed. “We’ll try not to be too…fluttery.” He was entirely too giddy this morning. He couldn’t

            John turned and kissed him, just long enough for Billy to groan. “Can’t promise anything,” he told Billy, grinning at their grandson.

            Billy leaned his forehead against the table. “Not before breakfast,” he pleaded.

            “Very well, we’re agreed. No fluttering before breakfast,” Holmes said. He set a teacup in front of Billy.

            Billy sipped. “Can you show me the experiment you’re working on? Dad couldn’t quite explain.”

            “Certainly,” Holmes said. “It’s actually quite simple…”

            And with that, the rest of the day; indeed, the rest of the visit went by without another mention. Billy asked no questions, and only complained when they were being too ‘fluttery’. The rest of the time he was just being twelve and climbing too high in trees and asking dozens of questions and nearly (near enough for John to swear) burning down the cottage when he and Holmes tried to bake a soufflé. (In Holmes’ defense, he’d watched people do it dozens of times, how hard could it be?)  

            Sherlock Holmes was not a stupid man. He knew the way most would react to his and John’s love. They were abominations, freaks. No matter how much their family told them their love was alright and protected their secret, he knew they still considered it odd. Born in the wrong time, the wrong place, the two of them were trapped among those who would never accept them as normal.

            But while he and John held hands by the fire, Billy said goodnight and threw his arms around his neck the same way he’d done ever since he could crawl, and Sherlock Holmes felt completely and totally normal.

            He’d never known how wonderful that could feel.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed, particularly annegirlblythe!   
> This one's actually a bit personal; it was on a similar kind of visit to my aunt's cottage that I discovered she was with a woman I thought was her friend (the amount of people didn't match the number of beds). Their wedding anniversary is coming up, so this one's for them. 
> 
> P.S. Hopefully at least one person did listen to True Colors. I feel your pain, whoever you are.


	40. Reichenbach Coda (BBC) (for BAFan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immediate aftermath of St. Bart's.   
> (If for some reason you're starting this story here, for goodness sake go back to the arc starting with 'Eye'. It's a bit different to what happened in the show)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so thanks to BAFan for reminding me that this chapter had yet to be written. Hope you enjoy it!  
> Also...I made a reference explicit here that was already made in the last Reichenbach chapter (Ew). If you don't like it, that's fine, it won't be a major part of this verse's canon. If you do like it, see point 1 but feel free to imagine :) If you don't get it, don't worry (because of point 1). Now, on with the show!

John woke wrapped around Sherlock. He snuggled closer anyways.

            Sherlock wasn’t awake yet, his face relaxed for the first time in months. John kept his breathing slow and even, not wanting to wake his partner up.

            Moriarty was gone.

            Really gone. John had examined his body himself, checking for a scar he’d noticed at the Pool; a small one, just under his chin, but noticeable, difficult to replicate. It was there.

            It was late afternoon, judging by the light. They’d come staggering home from St. Bart’s, unwilling to let each other go for a moment, stopping just long enough to explain to poor Mrs. Hudson why the nice young man fixing the fridge now had a bullet in his skull. They’d collapsed in bed right after their phones were switched off. John fell asleep almost immediately; apparently being knocked unconscious for several hours didn’t make up for missed sleep.

            Now he watched his sleeping lover, his throat tightening. Sherlock’s arms were locked around him in desperation, chest and back muscles strained. John moved his hand to the small of his back, trying to soothe him without waking him up. Sherlock was coming down from pure terror, and John swallowed guiltily.

            He stayed quiet for a few long minutes, watching Sherlock sleep. If he could, he would stay here until morning….

            But why not? They’d earned a break; a real rest. And he was still tired.

            John pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s lips and closed his eyes. They could get up later.

* * *

 

            Sherlock woke in a panic, eyes still squeezed shut. _John!_

It took a second to feel John, hear him, smell him. Took another second to remember that he’d come so close to never seeing him alive again.

            He opened his eyes, his lover’s worried face the first thing he saw.

“Sher? Dear, it’s alright.”

Sherlock didn’t speak, just buried his face in John’s neck and cried. He didn’t make a sound—rarely did when he cried. He just shook and breathed in John’s scent, because John was still here and that was _wonderful,_ as wonderful as it would have been terrible to wake up alone. A shudder ran through his body, and John held him tighter.

            “I’m here, love,” John whispered. “I’m right here.”

            Sherlock finally managed to calm himself. “What time is it?”

            John craned his neck. “Looks like morning. I can check my phone—”

            “In a minute,” Sherlock interrupted. John letting go was not at all Okay right now.

            In what felt like five minutes but was more logically twenty, John touched his face. “Dear, we ought to eat something.”

            “Transport,” Sherlock grumbled.

            “Necessary transport,” John reminded him. “Come on. We won’t leave the flat.”

            Very reluctantly, Sherlock let go of John and watched him get dressed. He’d watched him do that dozens of times in six months; why did it feel so wonderful to watch John pull a jumper on?

            _Because it’s his favourite, the one you would have buried him in._

Sherlock pushed the thought away with furious joy. Moriarty was gone. He could keep John safe now.

            Once he was dressed too they made their way out to the kitchen. Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs, wasn’t surprised to see Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs. She had a large tray of food, too—his and John’s favourites. That was a little more surprising.

            “You’re up, thank goodness! The hot plate just went.” Mrs. Hudson put the tray down and drew them both into a tight embrace. “I’ve been so worried. Is that reptile gone for good?”

            Sherlock nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson. There’s nothing to worry about any more. Nothing at all.”

            Mrs. Hudson drew back at last, wiping her eyes. “Thank goodness. Now eat up, and tell me what happened.”

            The story came out slowly, including several detours and one long, impassioned scolding about “not telling me the neighbours were assassins!” Sherlock took the time to eat his whole plate, even stealing John’s last piece of toast.

            “Your brother called, by the way,” Mrs. Hudson said at last.

            “Oh?” Sherlock asked. “Our phones have been off.”

            “He said he doesn’t have your number anyways.”

            Sherlock’s breath caught. “Oh.”

            “Why does Mycroft not have your number, Sherlock?” John asked.

            “Mycroft does.”

            “Then…” John’s eyes went wide. “Wait—it wasn’t Mycroft who sent the man, was it?”

            “The man who saved you? James? No, that wasn’t Mycroft.” Sherlock closed his eyes, memories of the little boy he’d left behind, just as Mycroft had once left him. He hadn’t thought about him in years. “That was someone else.”

            “You have another brother?”

            “We haven’t been…brothers. By mutual agreement. Not by hatred so much as protection. He works with dangerous people.”

            “So do you.”

            “Exactly. Mycroft has a certain level of protection, but he…doesn’t. He’s more hands on, my little brother.” Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson. “What did he say?”

            “Just to tell you he’s sorry that took so long, there was some miscommunication. James hopes John’s doing well. The two of them have quit; that was their last mission. He said something about an Aston Martin? He sends his love, says they might be back in a year or two.”

            “I’ll send him a message,” Sherlock answered. John’s eyes were boring into him but this wasn’t the time for answers. He could explain his mad, computer-minded extrovert of a brother later. “Has there been anything on the news?”

            Mrs. Hudson nodded. “The Yard’s issued an apology to the two of you.”

            “Well isn’t that gracious,” John muttered.

            “Part of the plan, John.”

            “Not all their reactions were.”

            “But think how much fun it’ll be to go back to work and watch them fumble apologies.”

            John smiled. “Now this is why I love you.”

            “There was something else,” Mrs. Hudson said a bit hesitantly.

            “Yes?” Sherlock said sharply.

            “Sally Donovan resigned.”

            Sherlock went still. “She did?”

            “Yes. Greg called about it too. He said she wanted to resign before she was fired, and she’s moving up to Glasgow to be near her family.”

            “Coward,” John snapped.

            “No,” Sherlock corrected. “Sally’s many things. A coward’s not one of them. She wants to be out of my reach, but she also doesn’t want to be anywhere near a place that makes her make this kind of mistake.”

            John tapped the table. “Well—”

            “We’re not going after her, John,” Sherlock said. “It’s done. Let her be. She’s got a conscience. That’s more punishment than anything we could ever do.”

            This seemed to convince John, who leaned back in his chair. “I know what we’re all doing today,” he said presently.

            “What’s that?”

            “We’re going to stay in, order Chinese for lunch and Thai for supper, watch crap telly, catch up on Cabin Pressure and invite Mycroft, Greg, Molly and Mike over for tea.”

            “Why?” Sherlock asked.

            “Why not?” John smiled. “We can do as we like now. Why not have a lazy day?”

            Sherlock kissed him. “As good an argument as any. Shall we begin?”

            And that’s exactly what they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is gonna be a long one.   
> First off, thanks for reading! If anyone is hopelessly confused by the reference, just ask in the comments and I can answer for everyone.   
> Secondly, I've made a final list of chapters. I currently have four more weeks worth of chapters (there's one multi-parter that will come out in the same week.) So I'm going to take prompts from today until next Wednesday (October 19th). Any that come in I'll add to the list, but otherwise this story will end on November 9th. You can still submit prompts after the 19th, but I won't be posting any further chapters until about 23rd of November at the earliest; I need to take a week's break, especially since I've got school deadlines (and another deadline that will be of interest in January) all that month.   
> If anyone has any questions, feel free to ask!   
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	41. The Eventual Appearance of A Carriage, pt.1 (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitty's got an important question for her dads, about a question she has for Stan.

Kitty dropped by late one night in the middle of a summer storm. She accepted the hot tea John pressed on her without a fuss, so they knew something was up.

            The storm raging outside was making the lights flicker, but Kitty was utterly silent.

            “Kitty, what’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.

            Kitty shrugged. “I dunno if anything is wrong, Dad. I’m just…not sure about something.”

            “And what’s that?”

            “Well, it’s Stan, obviously,” John put in. “Did you have a row?”

            “No,” Kitty said vehemently. “God, everyone thinks all we do is have rows, you must all be bloody shocked that we’re together at all!” Her hands clenched around the teacup.

            Sherlock put a hand on her knee. “Sweetheart, anyone who can’t see how much you two love each other are idiots and don’t deserve to be in your life anyways.”

            Kitty scoffed. “We’re not like you two. Everyone can just tell with you two.”

            “Yeah, but we couldn’t tell at first,” John replied. He took his husband’s hand. “I think you got the better end.”

            “Maybe.” Kitty went quiet again. An awful, lonely, wailing wind started up outside. John was on the verge of telling Kitty to spit it out when she finally did.

            “Why did you get married?”

            John looked at Sherlock, startled. “Well, it was finally made legal, so we thought we should go for it. We’d already been together over five years, so it didn’t change much, but we had a grand time.”

            Kitty looked disappointed. “So it was just because you could?”

            “Is that not a good reason?” John asked lightly. “After all, you can have love without marriage, but after all the work Mycroft did—yes, Sher, I know, your brother’s terrible at keeping secrets.”

            “Why are you asking us?” Sherlock asked, ignoring John. “We’re not the only wedded couple in your life.”

            “I did ask them,” Kitty said. “Molly said she always wanted a wedding and a good man, and she couldn’t see why she shouldn’t have both and still be a feminist, Mike said he wanted to make Molly happy, Uncle Greg said it was to spite some of the people in Uncle Mycroft’s office, and Uncle Mycroft said it was because he wanted Uncle Greg to be officially family.”

            “Decent reasons,” John said. He kept his thoughts about Molly’s reason—true to a point, but he had a guess her worries about titles might have prompted it too—to himself. “So…what are you doing—oh.”

            Kitty glared at him, daring him to continue.

            John Watson Holmes never backed down from a dare.

            “Did he ask you to marry him?”

            Kitty’s glare faltered. “No. I…I want to ask him.”

            “Ah,” Sherlock said.

            That simple exclamation was enough to finally open the floodgates.

            “We’re the farthest fucking thing from traditional—I’m a retired sex worker, he’s a cop, we’ve been living together for two years, I just…why is this what I want?”

            “Why do you want to promise the man you love that you’ll be with him forever?” Sherlock asked. “I think that’s fairly obvious.”

            “But this is not the only way to promise!” Kitty slammed the cup down. “I’ve already promised him everything I can give, I shouldn’t need a dress and a ring and flowers to show that!”

            “Do you want them?”

            “I dunno, maybe.” Kitty was quiet. “I’ve always loved looking through bridal magazines. I know, I know, I’m a discredit to feminism—”

            “You’re no such thing,” John said sternly. “You know better than that.” He waited for Sherlock to chime in, but when he turned to look at his husband, he was smiling.

            Kitty noticed. “Something funny, Dad?”

            “Oh, nothing.” Sherlock leaned back, not letting go of John’s hand. “I just realized why I recognized this argument.”

            Kitty raised an eyebrow. “Who consulted you about marriage?”

            “Oh, it was with myself. Before I proposed to your Dad.” Sherlock ran his fingers over John’s wedding ring.

            “You wanted a dress? Love, you should have said something—”

            “No, I did not want a dress. I just wanted to match you. Do keep up, John.” Sherlock turned to Kitty. “You want to know what I finally decided?”

            “Well I already know, don’t I? He’s been your husband for ages!”

            “Because I wanted to get married,” Sherlock said simply. “There were probably, oh, a couple dozen reasons for it, but it all added up to the same. I wanted to get married, so I asked John, and as luck would have it, so did he. That’s part of being in love with someone; your wants do dovetail sometimes. And when they do, why not indulge? Honestly, it’s the most logical part of love, I don’t understand why people have so much trouble with it.”

            Kitty was smiling now. “So I should just ask him?”

            “Well, tell him first. Tell him you want to be married, and see how he feels.” John squeezed his daughter’s cold hand. “Either way you both know, and you can figure out what you want as a couple. As Kitty and Stan, nobody else. We just want you happy, whatever way that may be.”

            Kitty smiled. “Thanks, Dad.” She glanced out the window. “I’d better get home. Stan hates these storms.”           

            “Are you sure you’re alright to walk?”

            Kitty rolled her eyes. “Dad, I live four doors down.” She hugged them both and left, slipping her hand into her purse. Where she had the engagement ring, John figured.

            John got up and watched their daughter run in the rain, a flash of lightning showing her getting into her building. John sighed.

            Sherlock came up behind him and pressed his lips to his neck. “Want to bet?”

            “On what?”

            Sherlock snorted. “On how soon she finds out that Stan was here this afternoon asking if we thought she’d say yes.”

            John thought it over. “She’s gonna ask him to marry her now and get it over with. He won’t let it slip until morning.”

            “I think it’ll be tonight.” Sherlock was quiet a moment. “Did you want to get married?”

            “Oh, for—I said yes, didn’t I?”

            “Yes, but did you just do it for me?”

            John whirled and kissed Sherlock furiously. “No, you complete and utter idiot. Have I got to prove it to you?”

            “I rather think you better.”

* * *

            Kitty’s text, filled with expletives that made John raise his eyebrows, came early the next morning. He debated about showing Sherlock, but decided that could wait. He put his phone down again and nestled back against his husband. _Husband._  He would never, ever tell anyone that one of the reasons he said yes was that word alone, just being able to call someone that. Sue him; he was a writer, words were important.

            (Sherlock probably knew anyways, the git, so why go to the trouble of admitting it?)

* * *

 

            Neither Kitty nor Stan was in a rush, and Sherlock did go a bit overboard in the planning stage, but the wedding did finally happen. Four years to the day after Stan and Kitty met (the real day, as John observed), they rented out a gorgeous hall in Bristol[1] and Molly and Mike brought fresh flowers from their garden, strewing them everywhere in the room. Stan had gone shopping with John to find the perfect suit…and Greg had taken over, which meant that Stan looked halfway decent. Sherlock hadn’t said anything about Kitty’s dress, just that it was taken care of.

            John and Roger Dimmock stood for Stan, and Molly, Lily and Jacob were in Kitty’s party. Mike had been persuaded to officiate again, and Mycroft oversaw directing people to their seats, a bit tricky when so many of the guests hadn’t seen each other in years. Trauma has a way of creating bonds that can stand the test of time, and the bride-to-be had spent her doe night catching up with her former co-workers.

            Finally, the music started, everyone stood up just like in films, and John blinked away tears as his daughter came down the aisle, Sherlock at her side. Kitty’s dress was strapless, satin to her just above her knee and a filmy fabric flowing down to her calves. In her heels, she was nearly as tall as Sherlock. But it was her face that was lovely, her smile so bright when she looked at Stan that John knew her doubts were gone. They were happy, and strong, and they were together.

            They hadn’t written vows. Stan had found a set he declared ‘perfect’, and the way they spoke them sounded like the words were new, that no one had ever had a love like theirs. Maybe they were right, John thought. He remembered how they’d looked when he’d first seen them; two frightened, damaged people who clung on tight to being good in defiance of a cruel world. Now they stood together, their delight palpable, and John felt the proudest he’d ever been of being allowed to witness this moment.

            The party was utterly brilliant; one of Kitty’s cousins was a caterer, Stan’s brother had come around last year and he brought his band, and John Did Not mess up the best man speech (it wasn’t as good as Greg’s, but hell, he’d never written for speeches). Stan and Kitty didn’t seem to sit for a minute, darting around the room hand in hand to chat with everyone, dancing to every single song and dragging the sitting onto the floor (John promised to delete the video of his husband dancing the Macarena—he never got around to it)…enjoying themselves, enjoying their day. John found it difficult after a while to keep up with the young ones, so he and Sherlock found a quieter corner (which held their brothers-in-law too) and they talked in low voices about the weddings, reminiscing about their own as they watched the mad capers on the floor.

           Not, of course, before they danced with their daughter and son to a Celine Dion song Stan had insisted on[2]. Kitty agreed, and set in on high speed for the first round.

            You could get a fair bit of fun out of tradition, John conceded as he tried to keep up with Stan. You just had to use your imagination.

            And love, of course, was the best kind of tradition.

Kitty and Stan's vows (traditional Unitarian) 

I, ___, take you,____ , to be the [wife/husband] of my days,  
to be the parent of my children, to be the companion of my house.  
We will keep together what measure of trouble and sorrow our lives may lay upon us,  
and we will share together our store of goodness and plenty and love.

<http://apracticalwedding.com/2013/07/traditional-wedding-vows-examples/>

 

[1] Goldney Hall, which is where John and Mary’s reception was in ‘The Sign of Three’.

[2] ‘Because You Loved Me’, very popular for father-daughter dances (or any parent-child tribute, really).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so here's the deal: This was supposed to be one chapter detailing wedding and...something else. It has very quickly gotten out of hand (glares at my brain for enjoying wedding planning so much). So pt.2 will be up either tomorrow or Friday, likely Friday. Hope you enjoyed, and for anyone who had exactly zero understanding of Kitty's wedding dress from my lousy description, this is the one I had in mind:  
> https://www.pinterest.com/pin/523402787914737725/  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	42. The Eventual Appearance of a Carriage pt. 2 (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitty and Stan have yet another question for Sherlock, and a storm brings a new member to the Baker Street Clan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about a year and a half after the last chapter.

            “And how’s Mrs. Hopkins?” John asked.

            He was on the phone with Stan as Sherlock typed up their latest case (ever since they got married, their readers had begged for both of them to post about cases to compare them. Sherlock obliged, though he still got stroppy when people said John’s writing was more ‘relatable’).

            “Kitty’s doing well—she took Lily and Jacob shopping for Christmas presents today for their families.” Stan paused a minute. “We were thinking of dropping in later, is that alright?”

            “Sure. We’ll just have to hide the ponies we got you.”

            “Da, no, I wanted a hippopotamus,” Stan groaned.

            John shook his head. “See you soon, son.”

            “We’ll be over in an hour or so,” Stan said before he hung up.

            “What was that about?” Sherlock asked.

            “I dunno,” John answered. “They just want to drop in.”

            Sherlock put his laptop down. “If it was just dropping in, then why didn’t they just do it? They’re home now, they live just down the road. No, something’s up.”

            John frowned. “He seemed alright. I don’t think it’s a row or anything.”

            Sherlock went back to his typing. “Perhaps it’s money troubles.”

            “I don’t think it’s that. Suppose we’ll just have to wait.”

            They didn’t have to wait long. Less than twenty minutes later Stan and Kitty walked in, bundled up against the ridiculous snow storm outside.

            Sherlock put his laptop aside. “What is it?”

            “Sherlock, at least say hello,” John scolded. “Hello, you two. What is it?”

            Kitty bit her lip. “Can we…I can’t do it, you ask them.”

            “How the hell am I going to explain any better?”

            “How about you both sit down and spit it out,” Sherlock suggested. He and John sat in their chairs, pulled close to the sofa.

            Kitty took Stan’s hand. “Well, I’m in my thirties.”

            “Yes, we noticed that your last birthday.”

            Kitty didn’t even smile. “And…well, I’m getting a bit older, and we thought that if we wanted to have…I mean we’re doing alright now and…”

            “We’re thinking about having a child,” Stan interrupted.

            “Really?” John couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face. “That’s wonderful! So what’s the prob—oh.”

            Stan’s eyes went wide. “Did you just—Da, did you just forget?”

            John covered his face with his hands. “I’m so, so sorry.”

            Stan laughed. “Not at all; that means the hormones are really working.” He stroked his beard. “Anyways I…well, I can’t. We can’t have our own baby.”

            “So are you thinking adoption, or…”

            “We thought about it, but we’re not exactly Mike and Molly.” Kitty smiled a little sadly. “I don’t think even Uncle Mycroft could forge enough documents to make us look like suitable parents, especially when there are so many couples that are infertile.”

            “You’ll be brilliant parents,” John said gruffly. “Don’t be stupid.”

            “If I can halfway manage it, you two can,” Sherlock added.

            “You do a bit more than halfway, Da,” Stan replied. “But Kitty’s right—I don’t think adoption is something we’ll be able to do. At least not right now.”

            “So…a donor, then?”

            “Yeah. Molly was very kind and got me an exam so we won’t be wasting any time—I’m fertile enough that it hopefully won’t take too many tries. We started looking through potential donors today.”

            “Do you want us to do some background checking?” John asked. “I’m sure we can hack in—”

            “Da, that’s illegal!”

            “John, we can deduce the pertinent information from the file anyways.”

            “Okay, shut up you lot!” Kitty was suddenly very tense. “The problem is…well, we couldn’t find anyone we liked. Not really.”

            “You’ll find someone,” John comforted her.

            Kitty met his eyes. “What if…we already have?”

            John froze.

            “I know…I know it’s a lot to ask, and I swear, it’ll be mine and Stan’s baby, you can be involved as little or as much as you want—”

            “Kitty,” John stopped her. “You want one of us to donate?”

            “If you wouldn’t mind.” Kitty looked desperately hopeful. “Then I know—it won’t be a stranger, and I won’t be worrying the whole time, and you could count it as a million Christmas presents—”

            John swept her into a tight hug. “We won’t count it as one,” he promised, voice thick. He turned to look at Sherlock. “Suppose we’ll have to flip for it, right love?”

            Sherlock had gone very still. “Why bother? You’re the obvious choice.”

            “What are you talking about?” John let go of Kitty. “You’ve got more to offer than me in terms of good genes.”

            Sherlock laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “Ah yes, borderline sociopathic tendencies, addictive tendencies…”

            “Impeccable family medical history, tall, attractive, amazingly intelligent…” John took his husband’s hand. “Dear, don’t be stupid. It looks bad on you.”

            Sherlock turned to their children. “You can’t tell me you don’t have a preference.”

            “Only for cosmetic reasons. John looks more like Stan. But…” Kitty tapped her face. “I think there are certain genes that are just going to overwhelm the others. I don’t mind either way. And just to stop either of you worrying, think about it like this. If one of you was a woman, and you were having a baby, you couldn’t control which person the baby takes its genes from anyways.”

            “Excellent point,” John agreed, not letting go of Sherlock’s hand. “Right let’s say this—we’re both willing. We should probably do some tests of our own, make sure that both of us are able.”

            Stan blushed. “Yeah. Um, no rush or anything.”

            “We’ll let you know by Christmas,” John promised.

            “Now go home or your scallops will have been in the freezer too long,” Sherlock said, waving his hand.

Kitty and Stan leapt up. “Damn it!” They rushed out the door, calling hurried thanks over their shoulders.

John glared at Sherlock. “You guessed.”

“No, Kitty had the receipt sticking out of her purse.” Sherlock’s gaze unfocused, and John sighed. He got up and sat on Sherlock’s lap. “Sherlock Holmes, don’t ever say something like that again.”

            “You’d be a much better father than me.”

            “Dear, we are fathers, remember? And that was by our children’s choice—they didn’t need to pick us.” John was still proud of that, still in awe that people like Kitty and Stan wanted him in their lives at all, much less as a parent.

            Sherlock leaned his head against John’s chest. “But we didn’t have a chance to fuck their start up.”

            “No.” John paused. “But Sherlock, think about Kitty’s biological family. From what she’s told us, they’re quite fortunate they’re dead and out of our reach. But she’s brilliant with kids.”

            “And she’ll make a wonderful mother.” Sherlock was quiet for a minute, playing with John’s fingers. “So if she has the courage—”

            “You can too,” John finished. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “Anyways, we’ll be the grandfathers. It’s our job to spoil the little one.”

            Sherlock cracked a smile at that. “I suppose.” He looked over his shoulder at the table. “Well, I have the necessary equipment to do those tests you mentioned.”

            John smirked. “Tonight?”

            Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s neck. “Why not?” he replied, dropping his voice an octave. “Could be rather fun.”

* * *

 

            Of course the test didn’t solve anything, and there were several more arguments before it was eventually settled. John did have to fight hard to convince Sherlock that Kitty and Stan would prefer actual baby clothes to the…physical proof of John’s donation.

            Years after, when he confided in Kitty, Kitty told him that deduction was exactly correct.

            It took two tries, but Kitty was pregnant by April. Pregnancy was hard on her, but she refused to let it show, up for consulting at all hours until Stan put his foot down.

            “I’m not having you get ill when you’re already taxing your body,” he told her. “Relax. The world isn’t going to end because you can’t consult.”

            Kitty fumed, but she eventually gave in, helped along by Mycroft agreeing to step in. She spent most of her maternity leave at Molly’s, looking after the children. Stan painted the spare bedroom a bright, cheerful jungle, with animals peeking out from the trees.

            Sherlock said nothing about the inaccuracies of having only happy, cheerful herbivores.

            Kitty was due in the middle of December, but John and Sherlock got a frantic call from Stan the last day of November. “She’s in labour!” he gasped. “And she thinks the baby’s coming now!”

            They were out the door before Stan finished talking, out into a wild winter storm.

            Kitty was indeed in labour, face rigid with pain. Stan held Kitty’s hand tight while Sherlock dialled Molly and Mike. John settled her comfortably on their bed and starting preparing for a home delivery.

            It was over before Mike and Molly could get there with pain relief and paramedics, but John never forgot that hour. He’d treated friends and family before, treated Sherlock with hands that stayed steady until it was over, but this was something different. This pain had a purpose; the real agony had been the years of suffering his daughter had endured, the despair his son had felt. It was terrifying, delivering without tools, in a still messy bedroom, but somehow John knew everything was going to be alright.

            And it was. Despite being two weeks early, Stan and Kitty’s daughter was a perfectly healthy weight. The Hoopers arrived just as John finished cutting the cord. Tears in her eyes, Molly wrapped the baby in the blanket she and Lily had made. Then, cooing over the small curly head, she tucked her back into Kitty’s arms. Kitty rocked her baby, tears in her eyes. “Oh look at her, Stan,” she whispered. “Oh, she’s lovely.”

            Stan sat next to his wife, doing his best to put his arms around her and their child. “I love you,” he whispered back. “And I love our baby, oh gosh…”

            The baby’s skin was just as dark as Kitty’s but her eyes were teal, the same shape as John’s—and oddly enough, Stan’s as well. And her curls…if John didn’t know better he could have sworn they came from Stan as well.

            As Kitty nursed the baby, Mike asked if they’d thought of names yet.

            “Well, it’s going to be her birth name, and she can change it if she likes,” Kitty answered with a glance at Stan, “but we thought maybe the best start for a name is one that reminds you of love. So her name’s Rachel Molly Hopkins.”

            John’s jaw dropped. When his eyes met Sherlock’s, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see his husband tear up.

            “We can use that, right?” Kitty looked up. “I thought about Jennifer, but her last word was Rachel, and if it wasn’t for that case—”

            “We’d never be here,” John answered hoarsely. Kitty held Rachel out to him and John cradled the baby— _my granddaughter—_ close. He’d worried in the last couple of months that the baby would somehow feel like his, but it didn’t feel that way at all. This baby was family, certainly. But Rachel Molly Hopkins was his granddaughter. Certainly not his daughter.

            And if anyone wanted to fight him on it…well, he still ran rooftops twice a week. They were welcome to try.

            “Come here, dear,” he called Sherlock. “Come and hold our granddaughter.”

            Sherlock took Rachel very carefully from John, holding her in front of him, supporting her head carefully. “Hello Rachel,” he said. “You won’t remember this, but I’m your other grandfather. It’s very…very nice to meet you.” He cradled her against his chest, closing his eyes.

            The wind was still howling outside, and Rachel’s birthday would be stormy every year, but that little room was quiet as the family took in its tiny, newest member.

            That is, until Mycroft, Greg and Mrs. Hudson announced their arrival by Greg falling up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Look, I couldn't decide what name I liked best, so this Kitty and Stan have a girl!  
>  Although just as a hint, she may not always be a girl.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	43. Greatest Honour (Victorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes goes on a rant, but as usual Watson doesn't have to say much to make him speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For timing purposes, this is post marriage, pre-Kitty.

There was a time in his life where Holmes was naive enough to believe that his brother was growing less irritating with age. He firmly stomped down the voice which suggested that perhaps he had become more tolerant, and honestly thought that he and his brother might be able to be...well...brothers.

Then, of course, Mycroft had to prove him wrong.

Holmes stomped up all seventeen stairs and opened the door with a bang. Watson looked up, startled. “Hello, Holmes, what on Earth?”

“Mycroft,” Holmes growled. “Of all the irritating, insulting—”

“What has your brother done now?” Watson said with a sigh.

“He's only gone and offered me a knighthood, _again_.” Holmes sat down in his chair. “I can't believe the nerve.”

“Yes, indeed.” Watson's lips twitched. “How dare he? You only saved the life of two of the Queen's granddaughters, after all.”

“Watson, you are utterly missing the point.” Holmes tried and failed to light his pipe.

“Then do enlighten me, Holmes.” Watson put on his most intent, I-am-listening-to-you-Holmes face. Holmes despised that face, but he was too irritated to care that Watson was indulging his ludicrous sense of humour.

“In the first place, a knighthood is meaningless to me. The title would not change my station; I still have enemies in high places as much as I do friends, and any monetary compensation is unnecessary. We have plenty of money for ourselves, even enough to indulge, now that—” Holmes broke off. Shortly after he'd given up drugs for good, Watson had come to him with his cheque book, with instructions not to give it to him if there were any sort of race on that day. Since then the doctor was in much better financial condition. It struck Holmes, however, that bringing this up to one's husband was impolite.

Watson just waved his hand. “You mean now that we've both given up unhealthy vices? I quite agree. But you were saying?”

“Yes...well, the point is that the title would do nothing for me financially nor socially. If anything, it might damage my reputation, as it insinuates that I am somehow better than my circle of informants and acquaintances.”

“So far your reasoning is sound,” Watson murmured, leaning back in his chair. “Do go on.”

“Secondly,” Holmes said, determined not to be put off by Watson's lack of interest, “I am no patriot. I care for my country, I suppose, but I do not work for Her Majesty any more than I work for our poorest client—all are equal. There may be no other city such as London in the world, but I am loyal to the city alone. My accepting a knighthood would be tantamount to hypocrisy, and I won't do it.”

“Noble of you,” Watson said.

“And lastly,” Holmes said, “I cannot imagine accepting such an honour when I know several men and even women who deserve it more than I do. Highest on that list, of course, is the man who sits in front of me and had just as much to do with saving those children as I did. Perhaps more.”

Watson's eyes were wide now. “Sherlock, you can't mean—”

“Oh, I very much do.” Holmes crossed his arms. “You are worthy of being rewarded for your deeds, past and present, and you would give the reward the proper dignity, having fought for your country on many battlefields. No, Watson, until you are offered the same compensation for your actions I will not accept.”

 Watson reached forward and Holmes uncrossed his arms, holding his hands out from habit. Watson took them, his face completely serious. It was a very different kind of intensity in his eyes now.

“Sherlock, I know you believe me worthy of such an honour, but I am not.”

“Don't be ridiculous, of course you are!” Holmes spat. “Simply because you write those wretched stories and make yourself out an utter idiot—people would offer if you let your deeds be known!”

Watson smiled. “My dear Sherlock, do you not understand? I want no public honour.”

That stunned Holmes speechless.

“I know you cannot understand that, because you are a performer in every way,” Watson went on, squeezing Holmes' hands. “And that is wonderful, and I delight in the part I have in bringing you a wider audience. You were made to be remembered, Sherlock Holmes, and I will make it so. But I am not. My deeds are not known to many, at least the ones that do not involve you. I led an unextraordinary life and did my best; there are thousands of men like that. There will be thousands more. And I am satisfied in this. I do not wish for the high honours of my country; they are made for different people. The honours I desire I have already.”

“And what are they?” Holmes managed.

“The trust of the young Irregulars,” Watson replied. “The smiles of the patients I help and the clients we save. A warm home, and friends who share their hearts with me. And above all, the love of a man who is extraordinary beyond compare.” Watson reached up and stroked Holmes' cheek. “I will not cheapen that honour.”

Holmes took Watson's hand and kissed it. “If I am worth remembering at all, John, it is because of you, you and your insistent need to show me my own humanity. That gift alone is worth more than a thousand titles.”

Watson leaned forward enough so they could rest their foreheads together. “Mycroft means well, my dear. He wants your memory kept too.”

            “Perhaps I ought to revise my previous speech and submit it to him the next time he starts talking about knighthoods,” Holmes suggested, not altogether meaning it.

“Do let me look it over first,” Watson requested, his eyes beginning to sparkle. “Your grammar is atrocious.”

Holmes pulled away. “It is not!”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well—you write too many words.”

“That, my dear Holmes, is because the _Strand_ pays by the word.”

“Ah. Sound reasoning.”

“Shall we go to the Savoy on my last long-winded epistle?”

“Why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is probably one of my favourites so far :)  
> Now I want to give everyone a heads up for next week. It's going to be a two-parter and the first part...well, I'll update the tags to reflect this, but there's going to be major character death. It's worth it, I promise you all it's worth it for part two, but this is just a heads up in advance that sad is coming, and you might want to skip that chapter and go straight to part two when it goes up on Thursday, or skip that week entirely, it's up to you.  
> As a side note, those are not the last two chapters, I have one more after that.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	44. The Next Great Adventure (pt.1) (Crossover)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All great stories come to their end. Warnings for major character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last time, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. This is pt. 1, and if you want to wait until pt.2 is up tomorrow, feel free to do so.  
> Also, I am not a doctor, so I'm fudging things a wee bit.  
> Also (last point I swear) I haven't written much of modern Rachel Hopkins, but she's aromantic and genderfluid; his male name is Billy John (he goes by Billy Jo).

_Victorian_

       When Kitty got two letters in one week, she knew something was wrong.

       Generally her adoptive fathers wrote once a week, sometimes every ten days. She saw no reason to worry about them; Watson was a doctor, for goodness sake, and their cottage wasn't far from the village. They were both getting on in years, they were both in their eighties now. But she'd never thought that three days after a normal, cheerful letter, she would get another from a stranger informing her that both her fathers were very ill with pneumonia in late March.

       Within two hours, she, Stan and the children were on the train.

       When they got to the little cottage Kitty almost burst into tears. There were two strange women there. They introduced themselves as Mrs. Riley and her daughter Gertie. Her fathers had written about them occasionally, and Kitty was grateful that the women had been there to help, but she had an idea about the damage they'd caused. Her fears were confirmed when she went inside and found Holmes in the guest room, shaking miserably, and Watson in the other room. The other bed was turned over to look like a table, a security feature Stan had insisted on when he built the cottage beds. Kitty had always hoped her fathers would never feel so cornered, and certainly not when they were deathly ill. Who'd fallen ill first, she wondered, and who knew that they couldn't be found together?  

        As quickly as she could, Kitty got the strangers out of the house. Billy, now as tall as his dad, helped him get Holmes in bed with Watson and turned the bed over, while Kitty and Rachel got a large pot of broth on.

       "Mummy, my grandfathers are going to be alright, aren't they?" Rachel asked. She was nearly ten, knew the secret, and was also far too good at figuring out the exact questions people didn't have answers for.

        Kitty didn't like lying to her children, but how could she tell Rachel the truth? How could she say that she wasn't at all sure that they were going to be alright?

        "We're going to take good care of them, sweet," she promised. "We'll make them comfortable, and then...well, then we'll see."

         Rachel didn't speak, but she set the table without asking and carried the trays in with an unusual level of care.

          Kitty buried her face in her hands. They would have to do this alone; Wiggins was swamped in London with Stan down here, and the few other Irregulars who knew about Holmes and Watson were all busy with their children. Kitty's heart ached; before last year, Mrs. Hudson would have been an option, but the kind old lady had died last spring. Mycroft Holmes was also in the graveyard, not far from Watson's wife, as per his dying request. Kitty knew what he was trying to accomplish, but she didn't want to think about those preparations, about trying to decide where anyone else was buried.

         Right now all she could think about was making sure that in this time of sickness, her fathers could still be together, without anyone finding out what they meant to each other. She and her little family would protect them.

* * *

          The next three days went by in a pain-filled blur.

          Kitty hadn't had much nurse training, but she followed Watson's feverish instructions as best as she could. There wasn't much she could do anyways; she'd never felt so helpless. Logic wouldn't help here, nor love. Her fathers were racked by coughs and pain, and all she could do was try to keep them cool and hydrated.

          She and Stan slept, when they could sleep, on the other bed. Billy and Rachel slept in the guest room.

          The worst night wasn't the last. The worst night was when Watson didn't recognize his husband and shouted for him, sobbing about the Falls, and Holmes was too weak to even reach a hand over, too weak to call out.

          "He's fine," Kitty tried to soothe, her voice breaking. "He's fine, Father, he's right next to you."

           But Watson didn't hear, and kept calling. Eventually, with Stan's help, Holmes managed to put his hand in Watson's, which finally calmed him. It was dawn before either man fell asleep.

           By evening their fevers had broken, and Kitty dared to hope that it was over. Lucid now, her fathers were able to sit up in bed, and they even drank some tea.

           But then Watson beckoned to her, and Kitty's heart broke when she heard him ask, "can we see the children one last time?"

           Rachel came in first, trying not to weep, and Holmes held her tight, running a hand through her curls. "Little Rachel," he murmured. "Be good for your parents, alright? And keep dancing. I have no doubt you'll be a ballerina someday."

           "I don't want to be a ballerina," Rachel sobbed. "I want you to be alright!"

           Watson reached out for her, and Rachel scrambled across the bed. "Oh child, we're old. This is what happens when you get old. We're not built to live forever. It's alright, really."

           Rachel buried her face in his shoulder. "I don't want to get old."

           "Child, there are many wonderful things about being old. And in a way, this is one of them." Watson's eyes were glistening with tears. "You will understand when you get there. It is painful to say goodbye, but we need rest. Do you understand?"

            "No." Rachel wiped her eyes and lifted her chin. "But I'll...I'll try." Her lips trembled. "Goodbye Grandfather John." She kissed Holmes' cheek. "Goodbye, Grandfather Sherlock. I'll be the best dancer ever, I promise." She got off the bed and ran out of the room.

            It took Billy a little longer to come in. He sat on the bed and fidgeted with his shirt, looking down at his lap, his lip caught between his teeth.

            Watson reached out and touched his cheek. "Billy, lad…”

            Billy’s tears fell, and Kitty choked on her own sob. Watson tilted Billy’s chin up. “Lad, don’t be scared. It’s going to be alright.”          

            “I don’t…I don’t know how to be without you,” Billy whispered. “You’ve shown me everything. And I’ll…who am I going to talk about vegetables with?” He wrapped his arms around the frail old man. “I’ll be okay though. Don’t worry about me, please.”

            Watson kissed the top of his head. “Dear boy, we will miss you. But we’ll see you again someday. And I expect many stories, you understand?” He drew back. “The cottage goes to your parents, Billy, but my garden is yours.”

           “Thank you, Grandfather John.” Billy walked to the other side of the bed and wound his arms around Holmes’ neck. “Thank you for everything you’ve taught me. Everything…I love you both so much…”

            Holmes patted his back. “We love you too, Billy. That will always be true. No matter what. See if you can convince Rachel to talk to the bees again, will you?”

            Billy laughed. “I will, Grandfather Sherlock.” He swallowed hard, bowed his head, and walked out of the room.

            Kitty moved to leave, but stopped when Watson called her name. “Father,” she whispered as she approached them. “My Fathers.”

           “Daughter,” Holmes said. “I am so sorry that we must leave you like this.”

            Kitty took their hands as Stan came into the room, his eyes red. “Don’t you worry about anything. It…it must give you some comfort, to know when it’s coming?”

            “I did not realize it would be so clear,” Watson admitted. “But…yes, Kitty. I doubt I will survive the night.”

            “I won’t either.” Holmes’ voice brooked no argument.

            Kitty bowed her head. "I suppose it's better...better that you’re together, isn't it?" Stan took her shaking hand in his.

            "Nothing about this is easy," Watson whispered. "I am sorry we are causing you pain."

            Kitty managed a smile at that. "Grief is the price we pay for love," she quoted. "Queen Elizabeth was a wise woman. And I wouldn't trade a moment of the happiness that we've had. You two gave me justice, a family...love. That's worth any pain."

            Unable to speak anymore, she kissed their foreheads and left the room, heart and eyes full. "Come on," she told her children, curled up together on the sofa. "Let's go for a walk. Your father will join us soon."

* * *

 

            No one felt like eating dinner that night, but Kitty made some soup anyways. Once Rachel and Billy were in bed, she and Stan laid down, still fully dressed, in the bed next to her fathers. The old men weren't speaking, but in the dim lamp light Kitty could see that their hands were entertwined, their heads close together.

            Poor Stan, who'd done much of the physical work the last few days, fell asleep fairly quickly, but Kitty couldn't sleep. She watched her fathers, knowing that the moment she closed her eyes, they'd fall asleep too and never wake up.

            "Sherlock?"

            "John."

            "I don't want you to go."

            "We'll go together, dear heart. I know we will."

            "I hope you're right." The old man's voice was weak.

            "Go to sleep, my dear John. I love you."

            "I love you, Sherlock dear."

            They didn't speak again, and against her will, Kitty did close her eyes.

            In the morning, both men were still and cold.

* * *

 

            Kitty was grateful for the simple, clear wills of her fathers. The cottage was theirs, as were all their possessions, except for two. And there would be two, simple burials.

            The first took place in London, and the church was full to the brim. Old clients, most of Scotland Yard...Kitty even saw a few of the circle of informants her fathers had cultivated so carefully.

            Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were buried side by side, Watson next to his wife and Sherlock next to his brother, and no one said a word.

            The second burial was in Sussex, and it was only the four of them. Kitty had never been more grateful for Stan, who refused to leave her alone to deal with Rachel's screaming grief and Billy's quiet, so, so quiet. He hadn't said a word since she'd woken him to the news that his grandfathers were dead.

            Compared to the loud, long church service and burial in London, this one was deeply calm and quiet. Stan dug a deep hole on the edge of Watson's garden, the edge that faced the beehives. Together, Kitty and Rachel wrapped the box in one of Watson's scarfs. It was a light box, holding only a journal and a folded piece of faded paper covered in a messy scrawl. The cufflinks were buried with the lovers, but these last reminders of the love they held, the love that never dared to speak its name, were better kept at their sanctuary, so hard won.

            No one spoke as Stan laid the box in the ground and they took turns covering it with dirt. Rachel became hysterical once it was done, and Stan led her inside, holding her close against his side. Kitty stayed with Billy, holding her son's hand as they stared at the ground.

            "Shouldn't we mark it?" Billy said at last, his voice hoarse. "So we don't accidentally dig it up?"

            Kitty nodded, her turn to be silent, and they found a large rock under the beehives. Once they'd placed it on top of the mound, Billy buried his face in Kitty's shoulder.

            "Mummy," he whispered, and oh, it had been years since he'd called her that, he must be really hurting, "Mummy, they won't go to Hell, will they?"

            "Oh darling." Kitty held her too-tall, too-smart boy close. "No, darling, no. They can't."

            "People say that it's wrong. What if God thinks it's wrong too?"

            Kitty took Billy's face in her hands. "Listen to me, William John Hopkins, do you think the same God who made them, the same God who brought them together, would punish them for loving each other?"

            "I don't want to," Billy whispered.

            "Then don't," Kitty replied, pulling him close again. "Because they won't, you see. They'll be in Heaven, or no one ever goes there."

            "I miss them," Billy sobbed.

            "I miss them too," Kitty said, tears running down her face. "But we'll see them again. Have faith, darling. If I learned anything from your grandfathers, it's that you cannot keep people who are meant to be together apart forever. It's just not logical."

           

 

 

 

_BBC_

           When Mycroft died at eighty-two, Greg buried his husband with a bitter smile. "Heart attack," he said disbelievingly. "An actual heart attack. I wonder if that's what he was always afraid of, bless him." The tears came later, the stroke a few months further on. Sherlock held John's hand tightly as they stood at the gravesites of their brothers, and vowed that he wouldn't let John die first.

            Molly made it to her seventeenth foster child's graduation and saw her start at Oxford before she quietly told Mike that she had the same cancer that had killed her dad. Before Jane's first year was up, Molly was gone; no medicine could save her. John held Kitty tight and watched his best friend give his wife's eulogy surrounded by their children, and prayed that he wouldn't have to give that speech for Sherlock.

            Mrs. Hudson made it to her hundredth birthday, but she died in her sleep just before the first blooms of spring. John and Sherlock bought Baker Street from her estate, never mind that they’d been living in Sussex since Sherlock was sixty five. Looking around the flat they’d lived and loved in, they both prayed they wouldn’t feel the utter absence of the other so vividly.  

            But it was selfish,  and they both knew it. They still had their children, still had sometimes-Rachel-sometimes-Billy-Jo, all of the Hooper brood, the new friends they'd made...to wish that they would suffer a double loss was cruel, wasn't it?

            That didn't stop either Sherlock or John from wishing.

            Retirement had brought peace the two men had never expected to have. Sherlock's bees loved John's garden, and on quiet days they worked together in their 'study', as they called it. John found time to write every case down from hastily scribbled notes, even the short ones, and Sherlock alternated between composing and blowing more things up. They took the high-speed train into London every weekend to visit the Hopkins', and every summer they had them down for a few wonderful weeks of exploring the Downs.

            There was no sign that the last summer would be the last. They were in their nineties, to be sure, but the average age was now nearly a hundred. Sherlock had rheumatism, and no amount of modern medicine could fully heal John's shoulder, but they were otherwise perfectly healthy.

            No, the signs didn't start until the fall. A Sunday where they decided not to take a walk with Rachel, staying inside instead. A week where Sherlock had to force himself out of bed to tend to his bees. A tentative video call to Stan and Kitty, suggesting that perhaps they might not be able to visit this weekend.

            That got the Hopkins on the train immediately. Rachel, now a successful choreographer who took a blunt hammer to the conventional methods of nearly every form of dance, came with her parents. She was Rachel when they got down by train and saw her Grandads pale and weak for the first time. He was Billy Jo when he figured out that something was really wrong, and Mum and Da weren't worrying for nothing.

            There were options, of course—nurses, a home, doctors to see if treatment was possible. The family talked long into the night about those options, and at last they came to the decision that there would be no fighting this particular war. John was a doctor, and Sherlock was one of the brightest people on the planet. They knew that whatever was coming, it couldn't be stopped.

            So they had a quiet weekend with their daughter, who'd become such a wonderful, happy woman, braving her losses with dignity, and held her tight when she sobbed and swore that they needn't worry about her. With their son, who now walked in a world where gender wasn't nearly so important as your quality, but was exceedingly thankful for the men who'd accepted him when the world was different. With their grandchild, who in spiritwas partly their Mum, partly their Dad and partly them, through blood and heart, who grew up thinking that love was brilliant, even if they didn't want it.

            (One day Rachel would meet a young lady very much like her, who didn't mind that their sex never changed into love, or that Rachel was sometimes Billy Jo. Great-Aunty Irene, after all, had taught her well).

            None of them wanted to part, but something told the long-time husbands they needed to spend the last day alone. And it was the last day; one last burst of energy to see the Hopkins off at the station, one last day tending the garden and taking care of the bees, one last night cuddled in front of a driftwood fire with tea and biscuits.

            One last night in each other's arms.

            Sherlock held John close, his chest tightening with every breath, every sob. "Please don't leave me," he whispered.

            "I won't if you don't," John rasped back. They'd left the lamp on, both trying to make sure the last glimpse of life they had was of each other's faces.

            Sherlock kissed John, and for a moment they were young again, having their first kiss and feeling whole for the first time.

            "I love you," they said at the same time.

            They laid there for hours, breaths growing shorter. Finally, just before dawn, they closed their eyes.

* * *

 

            When Kitty received an email—written months before, programmed to be sent only if no one was there to stop it—she knew.

            In that day and age, autopsies were much more thorough, able to tell many certainties where once there were only guesses. When Sherlock and John first met, you could tell time of death within a span of hours.

            When Jane Hooper checked, to appease her own mind, she was able to determine that William Sherlock Scott Holmes' heart had stopped at the same second as John Hamish Watson Holmes.

            The mourners took comfort in that as they scattered the mingled ashes, half at the beautiful cottage that belonged to Kitty and Stan now, and half through the streets of London.

            Neither Holmes was religious, but Rachel knew the secret of their love, the strange dream they'd had years before. She wondered whether that meant that her grandads were still together, somehow. If someone had gone to all the effort of having them meet, why wouldn't they stay together beyond a lifetime? Wasn't that logical?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes. While I hope I didn't ruin anyone's day, I do hope that got across as somewhat sad, I almost cried writing it. I promise part 2 makes up for it; I've wanted to write it ever since I started posting this story.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	45. The Next Great Adventure (pt.2) (Crossover)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they wake up, they're somewhere very different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is an immediate continuation from the last chapter.

            When Watson woke, his back didn't hurt.

            That was worth noting, considering that he'd woken with a bad back for the last seven years. It wasn't as irritating as his bad shoulder of course...which didn't hurt either.

            Watson sat up cautiously, his confusion growing as he realized that he wasn't in any pain at all. It wasn't just that, he marvelled. His body felt young and strong again, well up to several miles' run after criminals.

            He heard a gasp, and turned his head. Holmes was lying beside him, but he wasn't the rheumatic, wizened, dear face Watson had slept beside for the last decade or so. No, this was Holmes when they'd first met, bright eyed and face clear of lines.

           "Watson?" Holmes said, his eyes wide. "John?"          

          "Am I…:"

          "You're young again," Holmes marvelled. He touched Watson's cheek gently. "Are we dreaming?"

          "I don't think so," Watson said slowly. "I think we may be dead."

          "Ah, yes. I'd forgotten for a moment."

          Watson looked around the room. It seemed to be a strange cross between his own room at Baker Street and the long, sunny bedroom at the cottage, though there was no other bed. He wasn't quite willing to get up yet, but something told him they ought to explore.

          Holmes had no such inhibitions. "Come along, John!" he cried. "Let's go see where we are. I must admit, it is a strange sort of Hell."

          "Sherlock!" Watson chastised, looking about nervously. "You didn't really...you couldn't have really thought..."

          Holmes looked him directly in the eye. "Of course I wondered about it. I decided I didn't care. And you?"

          "The same," Watson admitted. "Though I must admit, this doesn't feel like Hell."

          "It's certainly milder than we were led to believe," Holmes said. "This room is perfectly lovely. The bed is soft, it appears that all of our favourite books are on the shelves, and—" he let out an exclamation of joy and rushed to the window seat, where a violin case lay. He opened it. "John, it's my Stradivarius, only...goodness, it looks brand new!"

           Watson had crossed to the shelves and was looking through the books. To his shock, he found his book of stories from his childhood, the ones his mother had read to him before she died of fever. He opened it and traced the letters, trying to take it all in.

          "This is wonderful!" Holmes said, and Watson could only agree. "Certainly a decent eternity, wouldn't you say, my dear?"

          "Yes," Watson nodded, but his attention was drawn by the door. It didn't appear to be locked, and when he tried the knob it turned easily.

          "John." Holmes sounded worried now, and part of Watson was worried that opening this door would shatter this illusion. Might it be some kind of test?

          Well. They might as well get it over with.

           Watson opened the door. To his surprise it opened on a staircase leading down. It was a perfectly ordinary set of stairs, similar to the ones outside his old bedroom, but somehow...different. The wallpaper had certainly changed.

          Watson looked at Holmes. "What do you think, dear?"

          Holmes took his hand. "We are together, John. I have all the courage I need."

          Watson squeezed his hand, then slowly, as cautiously as the old men they'd been, they made their way down the stairs.

* * *

 

            So far, Sherlock deduced, being dead had several perks.

            He and John were young again, for starters. John had done a rather enthusiastic cartwheel when he realized that his old wounds were gone too, even the scars faded. For his part, Sherlock's chest no longer felt tight and his hearing was as good as ever. They were also in an interesting blend of their retirement cottage and their Baker Street flat bedroom. John was keen to see if sex was easier than it had been in recent years, but Sherlock resisted, wanting to see if the rest of the flat was there.

            It was; their old kitchen, the refrigerator full of both food and toes, their sitting room with their old familiar chairs, a low hum of traffic outside. But there was something a bit...odd.

            John stood next to him, his brow furrowed. "There's bits here that I don't remember."

            Sherlock knew exactly what his husband meant. There were more chairs, for one thing, and a strange slipper on the mantel next to the skull. It was still their sitting room, still their flat, but it almost felt like there were other people who belonged here too.

            Sherlock was about to ask John, rather hopefully, if perhaps they ought to go downstairs and see if Mrs. Hudson might be there (he had very little data on this apparent afterlife, it was rather disconcerting to find out there was one at all). A creak from the stairs stopped him.

            Sherlock grabbed John's hand, suddenly frightened. Who was above them? Panic caught in his chest. Kitty surely couldn't be joining them already. What about Stan—

            But it wasn't either child. It was two men holding hands, both who looked oddly familiar. They reminded Sherlock of—oh.

            Of course, wouldn't they be younger as well?

            "Sherlock?" the taller one questioned.

            "Holmes," Sherlock replied. He strode forward and took the man's free hand. "Thank you so much."

            "Thank you," Holmes replied. He smiled at John. "Ah, John. Good to see you're well. They found you, then?"

            "Yeah, Kitty and Sher found me not too long afterwards," John answered. He looked awestruck.

            Watson was looking around the room. "What on earth—it's our flat, though it's...it's not, really."

            "It appears to be a mingling of both of our favourite places," Holmes said thoughtfully. "I rather like it. I'm not quite sure what that is, though." He pointed to the television.

            "Right, you two didn't have the telly!" John looked rather excited. "I wonder if we can watch what we like, there's so much I think you'd enjoy!"

            "Well, you can pretty well do as you like," chirped a voice behind them.

            All four of them whirled. Sherlock blinked. There was a man in the room he didn't quite recognize.

            "Stamford?" Watson asked blankly.

            The man blushed. "Well, not really. I just borrowed him for a moment, all those years ago. I wanted you to meet."

            "Who are you?" Sherlock snapped, pulling John close.

            The man didn't seem offended. "The name's...well, might as well call me David. I've got rather too many names, several that don't mean anything to either of you. I'm your guide, so to speak; I do the introductions."

            "Introducing us to what?"

            "Why, Heaven, of course." The man cocked his head. "Do you lot still call it that? You'll have to forgive me, there's an awful lot of dimensions and not everyone's up to the same terminology. Heaven, Paradise, Elysium...you know, the good place." His face turned serious for a moment. "I know you weren't all expecting to end up here. Very sorry about that."

            "Well, we..." Watson stopped speaking. Holmes put his arms around him.

            "Anyways, again, not all the dimensions are caught up with each other. Stupid, really. Just so we're clear, there was nothing wrong with the way you two loved each other. Nothing at all. We were all quite happy with the way things turned out after we…showed you each other." David beamed. "Nothing better than watching real love, it never gets old. "

            "Hope you weren't always watching," John muttered. Sherlock fought very hard not to blush. “So it was…it was you?”

            David's eyes twinkled. "Me and a few friends. We’re incorrigible romantics, and everyone thought it was a brilliant idea. Anyhow, that's not really what we need to talk about right now. So, here's the standard bit. Yes, you are all dead. No, there's no real tribunal, we sort of see all, know all...except the more, ah, intimate details. The people you love are all here. I do love saying that, it's not always true."

            "Can we see them?" Sherlock interrupted. He was a bit surprised that Mycroft's name was the first to spring to mind.

            "Of course you can," David said gently. "This is the good place, after all. You can do what you like."

            "How will we...what if we interrupt them?" Watson asked. "That might be rude."

            "Or incredibly awkward," John put in. Sherlock shuddered, remembering That Afternoon.

            "Well, that's the bit that's rather tricky to explain," David answered. "To put it simply, you won't. When you go to see them, they'll be perfectly happy to see you, you can stay as long as you like, do whatever you like, and when you want to go somewhere else, you can. You could spend the equivalent of a hundred Earth years having tea with Mrs. Hudson, for instance, and still come back to your husband as though you'd been gone only a moment."

            "And how exactly does that make any sense?" Sherlock snapped. "How could anything coincide?"

            "And how can time be spent that way?" Holmes added.

            "Shut up, dear," Watson and John said at the same time.

            David laughed. "Oh, I am glad this is working out. It was my idea, you see, to have the four of you in the same place. I think we got the details right, is there anything else you want?"

            "No," Sherlock said. "It seems just like our place, just more...more people."

            "That's the idea. And of course there's two outsides.” David indicated a door by the window that was certainly never in Baker Street. “You go out that way, you'll be in Sussex with your bees and gardens, and down the stairs is London from both times. You should try exploring each other's times, that might be interesting."

            Holmes' eyes lit up. "That will be interesting." He paused. "I don't suppose...but no..."

            "Oh, you can still have cases," David said. "There's loads of cold cases, and I mean cold, five hundred year old cases you can work on. And of course all the little interests you all have; plenty of time to indulge, plenty of material to find the answers." He winked. "Or Google anything you don't want to take the time to discover, that's utterly up to you."

            Sherlock's mind raced. Old music, manuscripts in pieces he'd examined at university, the films he and John had never had the time to watch...

            "The main thing is," and now David's face became more serious, "that you don't need it anymore. You're not tied to your bodies anymore, and your souls have been refreshed, so to speak. There won't be any more minds racing off the tracks."

            Sherlock was dumbstruck. His mind...it could be quiet? It hadn't been in over eighty years, even in the best moments with John, utterly focused on his husband. There was always something ticking away, screaming…

            "It'll take some getting used to," David said kindly, "but you can enjoy yourselves fully now. You can do whatever you want and feel completely in the moment."

            Sherlock drew John close, and the voice was quiet, and his mind was quiet, and all he could feel was John. Holmes was crying, Watson holding his hand.

            "I think I'd better go now," David said gently. "If you've got any questions, don't hesitate to ring, my number's in your phones. I reckon you four want to get on with things." He walked to the door, then turned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh, and one other thing; Sherlock, John, you might appreciate this more than the other two, but...there's no need for lube."

            Sherlock sputtered, and David disappeared with a laugh.

            "What on earth..." Watson turned pink. "Oh. Is there..."

            John laughed. "D'you know, I think we ought to at least have a cuppa together before we start discussing the finer points of modern sex equipment. And get you used to talking about it openly," he added as Holmes jumped. "You're sharing a room, too."

            Holmes beamed. "We don't have to lie about it anymore!"

            "No," Sherlock said softly. "And it seems as though we have time to fully appreciate the men we love, without hard drive space taken up with nonsense."

            "I haven't the faintest idea what a hard drive is," Holmes said as he accepted a cup of tea from his husband, "but I echo the emotion." He took Watson's hand and kissed it as the man sat down across from him.

            Part of Sherlock wanted to rush out the door and see his brother and the rest of their family, and part of him wanted to take John back to their room and test out David's last advice, but part of him, maybe the same part that loved Watson even though he wasn't exactly John, who understood Holmes so well, knew what he really wanted to do right now. "Why don't we sit down and have a chat?" he asked, taking John's hand. "I want to know about your lives."

            When they were finished having their first real conversation in years, the first one with all four in the same room, the couples  would separate and go and see their families. Then they'd come back, and with utterly no embarrassment learn exactly what afterlife sex was like (it was quite extraordinary in Holmes' terms; fucking amazing in John's). Some times they would seek out their families, sometimes each other, sometimes keeping an eye on those soon to join them. They shared each other's art (Holmes adored crap telly, to the despair of his husband, while John developed a fondness for fountain pens), explored technologies, and sometimes, when they were all itching for adventure, they'd track down a good old cold case and solve it together (usually robbery, sometimes fraud, never murder for fun. That was a far more serious pursuit, one they engaged in rarely and with full commitment to righting the wrongs of the past, passing that knowledge on through the channels that eventually made their ways down to that Earth).

            Whatever they were doing, Holmes and Watson and Sherlock and John were finally safe, finally able to enjoy themselves and be happy without the scars of the past and without fear of discovery.

            Some would argue that they didn’t deserve that much of a reward. They were ordinary men who after all, hadn't accomplished much.

            Those people fail to understand that to love another person, and to make them feel extraordinary, is an accomplishment all in itself.

            Why not be rewarded for that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm curious to see what people think of this vision of the afterlife, it's something I'm starting to develop for an original project. And yes, don't you worry, when the others die they'll get there too.   
> And this is not the last chapter! The last one will be next Wednesday.   
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	46. Just An Ordinary Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson, Holmes, John and Sherlock have an ordinary day.   
> I recommend listening to Great Big Sea's 'Ordinary Day' while reading, I did while writing :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is set in a nebulous time in both worlds, but definitely before the events of chapter 44

_Victorian_

Watson placed the last of the sweet peas in the ground and looked up. “Sherlock, they’ll be here soon!”

            His husband was observing the bees, a ridiculous looking contraption protecting his head and neck. He waved a hand, still focused on the hives.

            Watson shook his head fondly. He knew Holmes would likely be cleaned up and on the doorstep before he was. He managed it every time.

            Holmes was indeed at the door before he was less than twenty minutes later; waving enthusiastically as their family pulled up. Rachel Hopkins, all of five, leapt out and barrelled towards them. Billy helped his mother down and followed his sister in the same manner, and Stan just shook his head.

            “Apologies,” he called. “I seem to have brought several lunatics to your cottage.”

            Kitty threw a smaller bag at him. “Quiet, husband.”

            Holmes laughed as he swung Rachel into his arms. “How was the train?”

            “Wildly exciting.” A gray haired Mycroft stepped carefully out, still dignified but more relaxed since his own retirement. “I believe I have performed the required amount of trips now.”

            “But Uncle Mycroft, you have to come back to London.” Rachel had solved the problem of what to call Mycroft when she first learned to talk, and the title never failed to make the old man smile.

            “I suppose I do,” he allowed. “Ah well, above and beyond—I must follow my little brother’s example.”

            Holmes gripped his brother’s arm. “It’s good to see you, Mycroft.”

            “And you, Sherlock.” Mycroft examined the cottage. “It’s a lovely home.”

            “Well, this is just the outside. The inside is much nicer, and that’s all Kitty’s doing, of course.”

            “Now Father, that’s not entirely true. All the paintings are Father’s doing.”

            Mycroft tilted his head. “I continue to find it astonishing that I know exactly what you mean when you speak that way.”

            Kitty patted his arm. “Well you are rather brilliant. You should be able to keep up.”

            Watson snorted.

            It was a good day for Holmes’ leg and Watson’s back, so they offered to take the children for a walk along the beach. Mycroft went with them as far as the pool, but regretfully announced that he had to turn back. “I’m afraid I’m only going to slow you down.”

            “Mummy and Daddy will keep you company,” Rachel promised as she danced in front of the group. “Grandfather John, will you tell us a story?”

            Mindful of the dire threats Kitty had made if Rachel got wind of certain ones of their adventures, Watson kept it light, describing some of their more madcap adventures. Holmes chimed in every once in a while, mostly to correct timelines. “My dear Watson, I dressed as the old woman _then_ the young lady.”

            Billy listened intently as his sister skipped around. She hadn’t stopped moving since the day she was born, and Watson was sure his granddaughter would be dancing across a stage when she grew older.

            They could have walked all day, but storm clouds were brewing on the horizon, and Rachel was growing sleepy. She still napped in the middle of the day, and fell asleep clinging to Billy’s back as they returned to the cottage.

* * *

 

Once they were all inside—they’d borrowed a few chairs from the Rileys’ for this occasion—Holmes offered around sherry. Billy looked up hopefully.

            “Not this time, lad,” Watson said firmly. “Your mother will murder you.”

            “I will indeed.” Kitty took her own glass. “And your grandfather.”

            “Daughter, you’ll do no such thing,” Holmes said sternly, putting a hand on Watson’s shoulder. “I’m rather fond of him.”

            Watson took his hand and kissed it. “Why thank you.”

            “Have you heard from Inspector Lestrade?” Mycroft asked.

            “We haven’t received a letter in a while,” Watson said slowly, worried. The Inspector had been forced to retire due to poor health, and had gone off to Scotland to live with his daughter.

            “It’s nothing bad,” Mycroft assured them. “He’s a great-grandfather now.”

            “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Watson smiled. “He deserves a rest. The hell we put him through…”

            “I wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t enjoy it,” Holmes mumbled.

            “He’s the nice one, isn’t he, Grandfather Sherlock?” Rachel asked, preoccupied for the moment with a picture book.

            “Yes, and the most intelligent of the professionals, with the exception of your father,” Holmes answered readily. “We should try for a visit, John, when we can.”

            “That would be nice,” Watson smiled.

            The smile stayed with him through supper, as they drove Kitty, Stan and Mycroft back to town (there wasn’t quite enough room at the cottage, and while Mycroft didn’t complain they knew he needed a full bed), tucked the children into bed after one last story. Watson slipped out of the room as his husband pulled out his violin and began playing a soft lullaby.

            As he put on the kettle for chamomile, the smile faded without him noticing. It wasn’t until his husband wrapped his arms around him from behind that Watson even realized he was crying.

            “John…dearest, what’s wrong?”

            “Nothing,” Watson said, in a voice that was more sob than speech.

            “Don’t lie to me…”

            “No, honestly, nothing’s wrong.” Watson wiped his eyes. “I just…today was wonderful.”

            “It was a nice day,” Holmes agreed carefully.

            “And watching you was the best part.”

            Holmes didn’t answer.

            “Watching you get to enjoy our family…being so open, not being afraid…I’ve never seen you quite this happy. This free. And I was thinking about how lucky we are that we got this in the first place…”

            Holmes drew him close against his chest, face buried in the crook of Watson’s neck. “I love you,” he whispered fiercely. “I love you so, _so_ much.” He pressed a kiss to the back of Watson’s neck.

            “I love you too, Sherlock.” Watson reached up and took his hand, held it close, fingers brushing over the wedding band.

            They stayed there like that for quite a while, the tea forgotten.

            “Do you think they have days like this?” Holmes asked quietly. “Days when they can just be and not…not worry about anything?”

            “I hope so,” Watson replied. “It’s strange—I’m sure some people would call this quite an ordinary day.”            

            “Well that is your greatest gift, my dear John.” Holmes took his hand again, kissed the tips of his fingers. “You’ve always been able to make the ordinary extraordinary.”

 

_Modern_

John bustled around the kitchen, trying to finish the last of the food amongst Sherlock’s latest experiment. “You’d better clean this up, love.”

            Sherlock sniffed as he went by with the basket of toys, kept out from underfoot unless children were visiting. “It’s fine, John. I told you that already.”

            “Yes, and I don’t totally believe it,” John retorted.

Sherlock was saved by the doorbell ringing. John went for the door but Mrs. Hudson got to the stairs first. “You finish the peas, I’ll let everyone in.”

            John smiled to himself as he heard Mycroft and Greg chatting with Mrs. Hudson downstairs. It wasn’t an occasion, exactly, but it was the first Saturday night all summer when everyone was off and there were no murders to be solved. John had put his foot down. They were having a family dinner.

            Greg dragged Mycroft into the kitchen and kicked John out. “Go and handle the drinks, I can finish the cottage pie!” Mycroft was helping by moving parts of Sherlock’s experiments out of the way of Greg’s enthusiastic chopping.

            Mrs. Hudson came up with the Hopkins family, Rachel wearing a bright blue dress and beaming. Kitty kissed John’s cheek and picked up her daughter. “Rachel, tell Grandad what happened today!”

            Rachel smiled hugely, showing off the gap in her front teeth.

            John gasped, taking Rachel in his arms. “Goodness gracious! Congratulations!”

            “Mummy said we can go to the zoo with Daddy tomorrow, and we can see the pretty birds! That’s better than a fairy!”

            John covered a smile. “Indeed.”  

Once Kitty and Stan were seated, Rachel crawled onto Sherlock’s lap. “Hello, Grandda.”

            “Hello Rachel,” Sherlock answered. “Now, what’s your latest adventure?”

            John grinned as Rachel explained her latest games with the unshakeable gravity only four-year-olds possess. Sherlock was all attention, offering advice on dealing with troll queens.

            Kitty smiled at him. “Never thought Da would be such an expert on trolls. Goodness knows I can’t always give the right advice.”

            “Well, he’s always been bright,” Stan said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Suppose that’s a good reason for you to be Holmes-sexual, Dad.”

            John’s smile vanished as Sherlock chuckled. “Greg, I _swear to God…”_

Greg just laughed from the kitchen. “I didn’t say it, John.”

            “Like you’re any different,” John muttered. Kitty patted his hand sympathetically.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs, leading Molly, Mike, Lily and Jacob. “Hello, everyone!”

            John stood up and took everyone’s coats. Lily tugged on his sleeve. “Uncle John, do you like my dress?”

            It was a lovely blue dress, but it did seem a bit…short for her.

            “It’s very pretty,” he said diplomatically.

            To his surprise, Lily pouted. “You were supposed to say you didn’t approve!”

            “Why—why do you want me to say that?” John asked, stunned.

            Lily took a step back and pulled on the belt around her waist. A long skirt fell down, all in greens and purples. “It’s a water dress,” she said excitedly. “You can wear it swimming, and then you can have a pretty dress later on. Mummy says she’ll help me find fabric that will dry quickly.”

            John beamed. “Brilliant, Lily.”

            Jacob was already at Sherlock’s side, chattering about the latest explosion he’d caused in class. The glee in Rachel’s eyes reminded John to warn Kitty that her daughter needed to be kept away from baking soda and vinegar (at the very least).

            After a few arguments in the kitchen (Molly had to intervene about the proper wine to have with the potatoes), they all gathered together at the table. Well, John allowed as he sat down, it was actually three tables jammed together, one from Mike and Molly’s, one Mycroft had delivered, and one that was actually a night table from the room upstairs.

            John remembered the day he’d moved in. He’d placed his gun in the top drawer after he and Sherlock had come back from Chinese at three in the morning, still high from adrenaline. He’d fallen asleep that night exhausted and hopeful for the first time in weeks, the only bitterness that Sherlock, of course, wasn’t interested in him. Ah well. He’d be satisfied with friendship.

            The first lie he’d told himself.

            John remembered the last time he’d slept up there, the night he still didn’t understand, when he’d spoken with a man trapped in a time without freedom for love. The next night he’d only gone into the room long enough to grab pyjamas.

            Then the night table became their daughter’s, and now the room was open again, open for any of their family to visit.

            A family he’d never thought he would have.

            Sherlock took his hand. “We’re lucky,” he whispered.

            “We are.” John leaned over and kissed his husband, ignoring Rachel’s squawk of disgust. “I love you, Sherlock.”

            “I love you, John.” Sherlock kissed his hand, lips on his wedding band. “Pass the potatoes?”

 

_And I say way-hey-hey, it’s just an ordinary day,_

_And it’s all your state of mind,_

_At the end of the day, you’ve just got to say it’s alright._

Great Big Sea, _Ordinary Day_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that concludes this story (I say as I have a few more chapters planned but will be posting much later). I hope everyone enjoyed this.   
> Now, confession time, I was not that big of a Johnlock shipper before I wrote 'Sleeping on It', and even when I started this series of oneshots I was still on the fence. But I got so many great comments, and astounding responses, and prompts...I never thought I'd write Molly/Mike or Winkin (still FIGHT ME), Rachel and Billy didn't exist in my mind, and I honestly never thought that I would create such a large universe for a ship I wasn't committed to. Welp. I am now, and I think that's the coolest thing about writing, is that if you give an idea a chance, it can really change your feelings.   
> Thanks to everyone again for reading and commenting, it's made everything lovely, and a lot of things possible.   
> I'm taking a break from fanfiction posting for about two weeks in general, and as for the Sherlock fandom you may not see much until December (I have a bunch of SPN and Harry Potter stuff coming up, if anyone's into those). Hope to see you then!   
> Cheers, and thanks again,  
> Acme


	47. Link To BAFan's work

So this isn't a chapter. 

THIS HOWEVER IS: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8549506

Debbie (BAFan) has very kindly written a fade to black scene for the Victorian couple (reference chapter 31). If you like explicit stuff AT ALL you should go read it immediately, it's so cool and a huge honour. 

Thanks again, Debbie, this is lovely.

Cheers,

Acme 


	48. Sibling Similarities (Crossover) (for Willow_Angel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are still surprises to be found in the afterlife.   
> There is some swearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Happy almost the bloody end of 2016, we've almost made it!   
> And happy holidays, of course.   
> This chapter's going to start off a small Mystrade trilogy (don't worry, John and Sherlock will feature in both timelines.) The next chapter will be up tomorrow, and the third on Christmas Day. Happy reading!   
> Note: After some research, I have determined that they probably said 'fuck' in Victorian times. 
> 
> And of course, this is for Willow_Angel, thank you for the prompt, lovely, and I hope I did it justice!

“What do you gentlemen have on later?”

            John looked around to see Holmes, tinkering busily with Sherlock’s instruments. Watson was out for a visit with their Kitty, and Sherlock had gone with him.

            “I don’t think we have any plans,” John replied. “I’ve just been reading, might keep doing that. Did you have something in mind?”  
            “I thought it might be interesting to meet your Sherlock’s Mycroft,” Holmes said. “I imagine there are some similarities, though from the way you describe him there are some marked differences. I am, of course, willing to supply my own.”

            John rolled his eyes fondly. Only a Holmes. “That sounds like a brilliant idea. We should invite Greg as well.”

            “Greg?” Holmes looked puzzled, then his vision cleared. “Ah, Lestrade. Yes, that will be interesting. We’ve only seen each other briefly since we came here.”

            John was confused. Why wouldn’t Holmes be more excited about seeing his brother-in-law?

            _Probably because he wasn’t that, idiot._

Of course. John felt a wave of remorse. Had their Lestrade even known?

            “They don’t have to come if you don’t them too,” he said gently.

            Holmes picked up his phone. Sherlock had shown him how to use one. John had downloaded Angry Birds for him. Watson had given him an earful for that one.

            Holmes sent a quick text and put it down, picking a test tube out of a giant sparkling beaker just before it caught fire. Like last time. “It will be nice to see them,” he said, eyes warm. “I am not afraid, John.”

            John smiled back at him. He wasn’t _his_ Sherlock, certainly, but there were moments like these when he could forget that.

            Thank God or whoever was in charge of this place they didn’t dress alike.

            Holmes smirked. “And that our hair is different.”

            “You’re _guessing,_ ” John complained as he got out his own phone to text Greg and Mycroft. “That’s all it is, you can’t have known that.”

            “You continue to believe that if it gives you peace of mind,” Holmes answered.

            They arranged to meet up once Watson and Sherlock returned. John continued to read and Holmes finally succeeded in _not_ blowing up all the beakers and having to start again, crowing in triumph and making a notation on a napkin pinned to the mantel. Sherlock had texted that he had gone to fetch Mycroft and Greg (death had not stopped his impatience), but Watson beat him back.

            Just behind him was an enormous man, tall and…it wasn’t fat, so much as a sheer amount of mass. He seemed far too cheerful to be Mycroft, but his eyes—piercing and thoughtful at the same time—removed any doubt.

            Holmes beamed when he saw him, and the brothers clasped arms. “Hello, Mycroft.”

            “Sherlock,” Mycroft said. He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, eyes bright. “It is _good_ to see you, little brother.”

            Surprised by the lack of sniping, no matter how affectionate, John just watched as Holmes pulled his brother towards the table, chatting quickly in French about the experiment. Watson went into the kitchen.

            Another man stood behind them, a bit shorter than the Greg he knew, but it was the same familiar face. “Hello, Greg,” he said cheerfully, offering his hand.

            The other man took it, shaking his head. “It is good to meet you, Dr. Watson. This is—well, it does beat all, doesn’t it?”

            “Couldn’t agree more,” John said with a smile.

            “Watson—well, the Dr. Watson I’ve known—he’s explained bits of it. I understand your marriage was out in the open?”

            “Yeah, Sher and I got married when it became legal in Britain,” John said. “We could’ve done it sooner and had a civil partnership, but we both wanted to wait. Sherlock beat me to the proposal, but he had inside information.”

            Lestrade looked surprised. “I suppose that in itself is a long story, but it can wait. I’m told that the modern version of myself is coming?”

            “Yeah, him and his husband.”

            Lestrade’s eyes opened wide. “Husband?”

            “Damn it. Sorry, you’re…I’m assuming you’re alright with that?”

            Lestrade smiled wryly. “If you mean do I approve of this relationship, then yes, obviously, I wouldn’t be here if not. I just…who is my husband?”

            John furrowed his brow. “You don’t know?”

            Then, as luck would have it, Sherlock came in the door. Mycroft and Greg were with him, hand in hand. The room went completely silent.

            “Hello John,” Greg said cheerily. “What are we having?”

            “What in the bloody FUCK?”

            John spun. Holmes was staring slack jawed at Mycroft and Greg.

            “Sherlock!” Watson chastised, but he, too, looked surprised.

            Greg was indignant. “What’s your problem, mate?”

            “What—you—and Mycroft?” Holmes stared at his own brother. “Do you two even know each other?”

            “Is that any of your business?” his brother replied. But he looked at Lestrade, and John saw a story there, a story that had never gotten past the first sentence.

            “Holmes,” John said gently. “Perhaps this isn’t the best way of reacting?”

            Holmes blinked. “Of course, of course—I apologize, just…” he trailed off. “How on Earth…”

            Greg laughed. “You might need a moment to recover there, mate.” He smiled up at his Mycroft. “It certainly was a surprise for us. We didn’t get together until after those two got married.”

            “You were being slow.”

            “John, we can’t all accept our Holmesexuality as quickly as you do—”

            “I am going to _kill_ you—”

            “Interesting trick, since they’re already dead.”

            John scowled at his husband, but Sherlock just grinned at him. “Perhaps we should exchange stories?”

            “No,” Lestrade said. Something in his face had changed; the shock had faded to curiosity. “Thank you, but I believe Mr. Holmes and I had better take a walk before we eat. We have things to discuss.”

            John watched in surprise as he offered his arm to Mycroft Holmes, who took it. The two walked out, stately as kings.

            “Well…” Watson said slowly. “We can hold dinner for a while. Are you two at all fond of Midsomer Murders?”

            Greg grinned at John. “Absolutely. Though you might have to put up with me shouting at the television. The sheer amount of shoddy police work…”

            Watson chuckled. “Oh, believe me, we’ve all heard it. John, can you get it set up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be in modern times, before all of this.   
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	49. That Afternoon (for BA_Fan) (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock attempt to show their support for Mycroft and Greg's new relationship. This does not go as planned for anyone.   
> Mild sexual content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part 2 of the Mystrade Christmas special, set just after chapter 14. John and Sherlock are just back from their honeymoon.   
> This is for BA_Fan, hope you like the origins of 'That Afternoon'!

John had to practically drag Sherlock out of the cab. He tossed the driver ten quid and took his still-protesting husband’s hand. “Come _on,_ love.”

            “I don’t understand why we have to be here,” Sherlock complained.

            “Because we are showing support for Mycroft and Greg’s relationship,” John explained. For the tenth time. Not like anyone was counting. “They’ve both been very good to us, even when we told them—well.”

            “That we got together because we dreamt of our Victorian selves?”

            “You know, every time you say it out loud it sounds stranger,” John answered thoughtfully.

            “It did happen,” Sherlock said firmly.

            “I know it did, dear, but sometimes I stop and think about how lucky we are that we’re not in some mental institution.”

            “We’d get out.”

            “Of course we would,” John agreed. “But they haven’t said a damn word about any of it, and they gave us a brilliant wedding. And I know you missed them just as much as I did.”

            “Which isn’t that much. I had a very pleasant month with you.”

            John rolled his eyes. “So did I, love, and you know it. It was wonderful.” A whole month without cases, without interruptions…they’d had a golden honeymoon.

            “You know,” he resumed, “it’s still perfectly possible to have a glorious time with one person and still miss others you love.”

            Sherlock looked away. “I suppose.”

            “I know.” John squeezed his hand. “Now come along, let’s go see the lovebirds.”

            “Aren’t we early?”

            “Only fifteen minutes. And Mycroft’s an hour early for everything, so I’m sure he’s going to call us late.”

            The doorman let them in without a word, and they got into the elevator. Sherlock typed a code into a keypad, too quickly for John to tell, and they started going up.

            “This is posh,” John said, suddenly feeling awkward. Mycroft had moved only three months ago, and from the amount of time they were spending going up and the gold leaf on the walls, this was an upgrade.

            “He received a bonus recently, and he decided to invest in real estate. My brother’s feeling his age, I suppose.”

            “This place might be a bit safer than his last home, too.”

            Sherlock’s mouth tightened. “That may have been a factor.”

            Mycroft never told them if he was in any danger, but with a job like his…

            “Did something happen?”

            “Not recently. He was shot at about a year ago. His bodyguards took care of the shooter—terrible shot.”

            Sherlock clearly didn’t want to discuss it any further. John didn’t press, but he made a mental note to get Mycroft alone and quietly remind him that he was family, and family looked out for each other.

            Somehow Mycroft Holmes had gone from the-posh-man-with-a-brolly to brother, and if the man was unaware, John had always been good at explaining the obvious to geniuses.

            When they finally exited the elevator, John was surprised to see one rather plain looking door.

            “How big is this flat?”

            Sherlock rolled his eyes—marriage apparently hadn’t softened his attitude towards stupid questions. Without even knocking, he drew a card from his pocket and swiped it. The door swung open.          

            It took John a full twenty seconds to process the scene in front of him. There was Mycroft, and Greg…and considerably less clothing than normal.

            Ah, wait, it was all on the floor.

            Sherlock shrieked—really shrieked, the way Mrs. Hudson did when they watched horror movies. He slammed the door shut and yanked John back ten feet.

            John blinked hard. “Was that—”

            “What the FUCK are you doing here?” It was Greg, yelling through the door.

            “You invited us!” Sherlock roared back.

            “You’re about two hours early, you clots! And haven’t you been taught to knock?”

            “It’s ten to one, Greg,” John said, trying hard not to burst out laughing.

            There was a pause. “The bloody hell it is.”

            To John’s shock, that was Mycroft.

            “We’re only ten minutes early,” John said, losing the battle with his laughter. “We should have knocked, though—sorry.”

            Sherlock seemed to have recovered. “Yes, apologies, brother.”

            “Will you two _go away?!”_

            “Oh, Sherlock,” John said, smirking. “They’re speaking at the same time.”

            “Very sweet,” Sherlock said. His lips twitched. “John, why don’t we go ahead? There’s a nice café across the street. That ought to give you enough time. See you in, what, twenty minutes?”

            “Sherlock!”

            “John, I am attempting to be supportive. Sex might be an important component of their relationship—”

            “Sherlock, I will _murder_ you!”

            “Mycroft, when one is dating a policeman, one should not be making death threats in their earshot.” Sherlock took John’s hand. “Come along, John, let’s leave them to it.”

            John couldn’t speak until they were out of the block of flats. Then, in as normal a tone as he could manage: “didn’t think Greg would top.”

            Sherlock groaned. “John, I’m attempting to _delete_ the image.”

            “How many times have the two of them walked in on us?” John started walking.

            “Together or separately?”

            “Total.”

            “Five.”

            “There. We’re just evening the score.”

            “Is that part of being supportive?” Sherlock smirked. “Help me, John, I’m clueless about these things.”

            “Well, I’m speaking from the perspective of a friend; I never walked in on my sister much.” John ignored the twinge of memory. “But I suppose the procedure is the same.”

            “Which is?”

            “Well, obviously you attempt to avoid it as much as possible. But when it does happen—especially when it’s their fault—well, you might as well make jokes about it for a while, right?”

            Sherlock opened the door for John and they stepped into the café. “I’ve no desire to make myself uncomfortable.”

            “Well, look at it this way. You’ve already been made uncomfortable. Might as well repay in kind.”

            “Can I practice?” Sherlock asked innocently. “I want to make sure I’ve got it right.”

            “Sure,” John said agreeably. “We do have about twenty minutes.”

            Sherlock really only needed five to master the technique, and it was nearly thirty minutes before Mycroft and Greg showed up.

            It wasn’t even seven minutes later, after several awful double entendres exchanged (apparently Greg had been coaching Mycroft), they’d all agreed to never discuss walking in on each other again.

            John couldn’t bloody delete anything. And men do have their limits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Look, it's still Christmas Eve where I am. For like an hour.   
>  Hope everyone who celebrates Christmas has a great one, and for everyone else have a lovely day tomorrow and I hope your holiday is wonderful.   
> Last part of the trilogy will be up tomorrow!   
> Cheers,   
> Acme


	50. Letters (Victorian) (for Willow_Angel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple request turns into a twilight year's friendship.   
> Warning for character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Willow_Angel again, who asked long ago for some Victorian Mystrade. I finally figured out a way to do it.  
> This one is very bittersweet, so read it with some tea. It takes place both in the past and immediately after chapter 48 (I borrowed SPN's 'then' and 'now' for clarity's sake)

_Then_

            Mycroft was surprised to receive a telegram from Scotland Yard that day. Sherlock had taken his husband off to the Downs nearly three months since, and although he’d made an agreement to consult with the Yard, he’d never gotten a telegram. Sherlock’s adopted son tended to come by himself, and they would sit in the Stranger’s Room, talking through the problem.

            But this telegram wasn’t from Stanley Hopkins. It was from Detective Inspector Lestrade, asking if he could stop by the Diogenes Club that evening.

            Mycroft pondered the request even after he sent an affirmative reply. He’d never been close to any of the police at the Yard; that was Sherlock’s realm. He knew Lestrade better than most (loveless marriage ended by his wife’s death, only child far away, near retirement, endlessly patient—how else could he work with Sherlock?), and had spent a few pleasant evenings with the man planning his brother’s wedding. But they weren’t _friends_.

            So why tonight?

            The question disturbed him more than he cared to admit, and he was positively curt with the Inspector when he came in, eyes nervous.

            “Apologies, Mr. Holmes, for disturbing you.”

            Mycroft waved a hand, trying his best to shake the strange feeling. “Not all, Inspector. May I offer you some tea?”

            “Thank you, but I will not be staying long.” The man looked exhausted. “I have decided to retire from the Yard.”

            Mycroft blinked. “Well, that will be pleasant. You’re headed to Scotland, then? Just outside of Glasgow?”

            Lestrade’s eyes widened for a moment before he laughed. “You would think that I’d be used to such magic by now from a Holmes. Yes, I’m going to join my Maggie. She’s had another baby, and her husband is ill. I may be able to help with the children.”

            “This is her fourth?”

            “Her fifth. She’s getting on, but she’s always loved children. As does her husband.”

            “Well, I wish you the best of retirement,” Mycroft said. There was a pause. “Do you need something from me?”

            “Well…” Lestrade hesitated. “With your brother retired, and Hopkins so busy taking over the Yard and with his two hellions—”

            Mycroft stifled a smile. Kitty’s children had inherited their mother’s spirit and their father’s earnest, innocent eyes. It was a powerful combination.

            “I have no one here,” Lestrade said, “and I will miss the London news.”

            Mycroft was surprised. “Would you like me to write to you?” That seemed to be what the other man was leading towards, but it…couldn’t be.

            Lestrade flushed. “I know it is a great deal to ask, but—”

            “Not at all,” Mycroft interrupted, as gently as he could. “I write very few letters; I would be happy to expand my correspondence. What do you wish for me to write about?”

            “I am not sure,” Lestrade muttered. “Whatever you think most interesting, I suppose.”

            “Will you write back?” Mycroft asked. “That will be helpful, to ensure that I am writing the proper sort of letter.”

            “If you wish me to.”

            “I do.” Mycroft stood and extended his hand to Lestrade. Lestrade took it and gave a firm shake. “Farewell, Lestrade. You will miss your train if you stay any longer.”

            Lestrade yelped and left quickly. He would make the train, his bags safely stowed, and go to Scotland He’d be with his daughter her family by the next day.

            That next day was a difficult one for Mycroft. The strains of running the British Government were more noticeable when you were nearing seventy two, and Mycroft found himself wondering, for the first time, whether it might be time to retire.

            Once he was finally ensconced in the Diogenes that night, he found himself reaching for pen and paper. It was ridiculous; the letter would get there not two days after Lestrade reached Scotland, but Mycroft wanted to get the first letter over with. It would be the hardest to write.

            _Dear Inspector Lestrade,_

_I trust that you have arrived safely. Today has been dreary; there is still talk of war, but no one seems to want to do anything about it. It may be an old man’s musings, but I fear that this new generation takes peace for granted, and has no care for the future of diplomacy._

_What are the names of your grandchildren again? It has slipped my mind; another sign of old age, I fear._

_It was sunny today. The birds are starting to come back._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

Four days later, Mycroft came home to a letter.

            _Dear Mycroft Holmes,_

_Please do call me Gregory; after all, I am no longer an Inspector, and Mr. Lestrade is too formal for two men who have planned a wedding together._

_My train ride was uneventful and I was met by my daughter and her eldest, Peter. Her husband is on the mend, but they are still happy to have me. I am grateful for this; I wondered whether Maggie invited me out of necessity only. I wasn’t sure where I was going to go afterwards, but it seems that I will make my home with them._

_Maggie’s children are Peter, Josephine, Matthew (named for his father), Ellen and the baby’s name is Gregory. I am ridiculously pleased by this. Maggie assured me earlier she would have named her eldest for me, but she feared her mother’s disapproval. I never knew the reason, and I am simply glad that none of her children bear their grandmother’s name.  Dolores is an ugly name; but then, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead._

_Do not fear too greatly for the future; if all else, we may not live to see it. All we can do is try to prepare the young ones for the work to come, and hope for peace. I know you have done more work than you have received credit for, and I am sure it will make a difference. I hope I have made a similar amount of progress in fixing the streets of London._

_It rained yesterday, but this morning was bright, and I took Ellie and the baby for a walk along the water. Ellie is delighted by her new brother, and insisted on holding him when we sat and watched the ships go by._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Gregory Lestrade_

_Dear Gregory,_

_I will do as you say. I still have hope that peace will be achieved, but if war is inevitable, I believe we will meet it with courage._

_Your grandchildren sound delightful. I am sure they are a credit to their mother and to you. I am also glad that your worries have been assuaged._

_There was a parade today with bright flags and singing. It was distracting, but it helped with the gloom of yet another cloudy day._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Mycroft_

            The letters continued for several months, sometimes accompanied by watercolours of the Scottish countryside or small toys, each chosen carefully for a particular child.

            _Dear Mycroft,_

_I know that winter in Scotland is dreary, but you ought to come up for Christmas; I know Sherlock and Dr. Watson are in Madeira, lucky bastards. We would all love to have you. It has been too long since we have talked face to face._

_Best Wishes,_

_Gregory_

Lestrade waited for a reply nearly two weeks. At first he was merely concerned, but it had turned to outright panic by the time a parcel appeared, addressed in shaky writing.

            _Dear Gregory,_

_Apologies for not accepting your invitation, but I became ill the week before Christmas. Have nearly recovered, will write longer letter soon. I hope you all enjoy your gifts._

_Mycroft._

It took a few telegrams and one long phone call (“hang the expense”) to determine that Mycroft was indeed recovering from a terrible bout of pneumonia. Mycroft’s health improved as the summer approached.

            _Dear Gregory,_

_My trunk is packed and my ticket purchased. I have no doubt this letter will arrive after me, but I want to pre-emptively thank you for a lovely time._

_Mycroft_

They did have a lovely time that summer. Mycroft met all five of the MacDonald brood, and they were delighted to meet the ‘London man’ who sent them such thoughtful presents. Maggie and Matthew were charmed by Mycroft, and they endeavoured to make sure their guest was happy. They didn’t need to put in much effort.

            Mycroft and Gregory spent many hours sitting together, often in silence, sometimes discussing the latest strange occurrence in London or Matt’s last prank. There was something comfortable about the silence; two men near the end of their days, finding solace in a new friendship.

            Sadly, the end of days was closer than they thought.

            _Dear Gregory,_

_I believe this will come as no surprise to you, but I find myself in love with you. We are two old men, and it seems cruel that it comes so late, but I wanted to tell you. You deserve that honesty._

_I am yours,_

_Mycroft_

Mycroft was ready to walk to the post office—it was his weekly exercise, even in this icy winter—when his phone rang. When he heard Maggie’s weeping voice, he knew.

            He went up for the funeral, speaking quietly to everyone. Sherlock and his husband had come up as well, faces lined with grief, but Mycroft couldn’t bear to look at them. Later perhaps, in the spring, once he could face the depth of his loss…but for now looking at his brother’s happiness, his brother’s love standing with him, was too hard.

            Thankfully, Sherlock understood. He’d guessed, somewhere along the way, and he left Mycroft alone beside the coffin just long enough for Mycroft to slip the unsent letter in beside Lestrade’s remains. What a terrible word, that. Remains.

            What really remained from Lestrade was his daughter, his five sobbing grandchildren, and a stack of letters bound with a blue ribbon and kept in a safe. Those were his friend’s, his love’s remains. He would hold them sacred.

            Mycroft lived another year, his time divided between Scotland and Sussex. Fittingly, however, when he died it was at the Diogenes Club, stopping over in the Stranger’s Room for one last memory.

            He wasn’t buried with Lestrade—he had to be buried in the cemetery near John Watson’s wife, to keep his brother and his husband together in death—but his brothers, one by blood, one by heart, buried a pen in Scotland; the only pen Mycroft Holmes had ever used to write his love letters.

_Now_

Mycroft observed Lestrade as they stood together. He had no idea of how long it had been since he’d died. All he knew that today was the first time he’d seen Gregory.

            “That was a surprise,” Lestrade said, his voice thick.

            Mycroft nodded, throat tight as he remembered the ease with which their counterparts held hands. “I did not expect to see that.”

            “I never thought I would have the courage,” Lestrade said.

            “I beg your pardon?”

            Lestrade drew an envelope from his pocket. Mycroft’s breath caught; he recognized it. He’d buried it.

            “I found this when I first arrived,” Lestrade admitted. “And I wanted to look for you; I wasn’t sure if you were dead yet but even when I knew you were I…I couldn’t find the courage.”

            Surprised, Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Courage?”

            “I wanted to write it to you so many times,” Lestrade said. “And I just…I couldn’t do it. I thought it would be pointless, and I was never sure that you—”

            “That I cared?” Mycroft asked.

            “I—yes. I hoped you did, but…I was an old fool, Mycroft.”

            Mycroft held out his hand. This time, when Gregory took it, he raised it to his lips. “I do care, Gregory Lestrade,” he said solemnly. “I care more than I know how to express.”

            Lestrade’s smile was worth all the bitter pain of that last year.

            “Shall we rejoin them?” Mycroft asked.

            Lestrade squeezed his hand. “I want to sit with you for a while,” he replied. “Sit and tell you all the things I could never write. Does that sound alright, love?”

            Mycroft smiled. “That sounds wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this concludes the Mystrade trilogy.   
> There will be another chapter of this before the New Year, and I hope to post a few little oneshots as well.   
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	51. The Adventure of the Anniversary (BBC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is determined to surprise Sherlock for their anniversary. Will he manage it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year's Eve everyone!   
> This is John and Sherlock's first anniversary, very early on in other words.   
> For Holmes and Watson's, see chapter 19, 'The Song'.   
> Mild spoilers for Game of Thrones ahead (specifically for the Red Wedding if you're far behind), and some swearing.

            John smiled at himself in the bathroom mirror. It was still dark outside; barely half six in the morning. He wasn’t a morning person in the slightest, but today he was as cheerful as he could be.

            After all, he’d managed it.

            Somehow, he’d managed it.

            Fully dressed and freshly shaved, John opened the bathroom door, checked quickly to see that the bedroom door was still closed (it was), and crept into the kitchen…

            “FUCKING BLOODY HELL!”

            “John, that’s hardly appropriate for the morning. Besides, you’ll wake Mrs. Hudson.”

            John glared at his partner. “You were asleep when I got up,” he protested feebly.

            “Mostly.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Happy anniversary, John.”

            Still scowling, John shuffled into the kitchen. In the fifteen minutes since he’d left their room, Sherlock had somehow managed to get dressed, get up without disturbing him in the loo, and make tea and toast.

            “I wanted to make you breakfast,” John grumbled.

            Sherlock wrapped his arms around and smiled tolerantly. “Apologies, my dear John. It appears we had the same goal.”

            Still grumpy, John nevertheless accepted a kiss. “I’ll beat you next year,” he promised.

            “Of course you will,” Sherlock said soothingly. “Now come and sit down.”

            John raised his eyebrows as he took his plate and mug. “Where’s the other kitchen chair?”

            Sherlock drew John onto his lap. “I didn’t think we needed it, to be quite honest.”

            That coaxed a laugh out of John.

            “Do you have any plans for tonight?” Sherlock asked when they were finished.

            John grinned. “I do. And I’m not telling you. I’m going to surprise you somehow.”

            Sherlock smiled tolerantly. “Of course you will, love.”

            “Well, in the meantime I thought we could run through those experiments we discussed.”

            John’s eyes lit up. “With the colours?”

            “So long as we can do the explosions as well,” Sherlock said. “They won’t be too loud.”

            John was about to agree when he heard Sherlock’s phone chirp.

            Sherlock hesitated.

            “Answer it,” John said.

            Sherlock took it out, glanced at the text. “It’s Lestrade. There’s been a robbery.”

            “That’s not his division.”

            The phone chirped again.

            “It’s a robbery of…puppets. And the puppet master’s missing. There’s a lot of blood.”

            “Why the hell would anyone steal puppets?”

            The phone chirped twice.

            Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Apparently Donovan found a thumb.” Another pause. “A left one.”

            “Man or woman?”

            “Well—” Sherlock stopped and looked up guiltily. “Doesn’t matter. They can figure it out.”

            John looked at him. “You’re interested.”

            “A little bit. But it doesn’t matter.”

            “Sherlock, dear,” John said, speaking slowly and clearly, “this is what we do. We solve crimes together. Sounds like a fun case…”

            “You sure you don’t mind?”

            “I want to spend our anniversary together,” John said. “What we’re doing is rather immaterial. So long as we have my surprise tonight.”

            “Promise.” Sherlock took John’s hand. “Well, I suppose we’d better go. It’s a woman’s by the way.”

* * *

 

            What started as a simple missing person’s case combined with robbery ended with a desperate gunfight under the London Eye. Victoria Hatherley, who was only a puppeteer on weekends for children in the cancer ward, had lost her thumb trying to escape from a drug ring. Their leader, “Robert Stark, please no wedding jokes,” had tried to convince the young electrical engineer to do a show at a church to raise donations. She arrived to see no fewer than seventeen men and women waiting for her with bags of cocaine to put in her puppets. Her refusal had cost her a thumb, but without the help of Stark’s daughter Lisa it would have cost her life.

            It nearly cost John his.

            They’d found Stark with Lisa’s help, and chased him halfway across London. They finally caught up with him under the Eye, but Stark was an excellent shot and desperate. His first shot went just over John’s head; would have collided if he hadn’t stumbled.

            Stark didn’t take another; Sherlock saw to that. One swift blow to the head knocked the man flying, and Sherlock had his gun’s safety off before John stopped him.

            “I’m alright, love. Leave it.”

            It took a few long seconds, but Sherlock brought the gun down.

            Lestrade and the others had managed to round up ten of the other seventeen, and with Lisa Stark’s contact list it wouldn’t be long for the rest. John sat next to Sherlock, wrapped together in a shock blanket (“for my bloody peace of mine, _damn_ you two, can’t you wait for us one time?! You’re staying where I can see you.”), and watched the Eye revolve.

            Sherlock broke the silence. “I’m sorry.”

            “What for?”

            “It’s nearly midnight.”

            “Is it now?” John raised his eyebrows. “What’s so important about that?”

            “Well…” Sherlock was struggling. “I’m all for saying it’s our anniversary so long as we’re awake, but most restaurants are closed by now…”

            “They are indeed,” John agreed. “Lucky we’re not going to one, right?”

            “What do you have planned?”

            “Told you. It’s a surprise.” John took his hand. “Come on.”

            For the first time since they’d met, Sherlock was completely quiet as John led him past Lestrade and out of the small park. He didn’t say a word as John signalled a cab, just nodded when John inclined his head (he wasn’t going to make that mistake again, thank you). John dropped a piece of paper into the front seat with the address. The cabbie gave him a look, but John just smiled. “It’s a surprise.”

            They didn’t talk during the short ride, still hand in hand. Sherlock wasn’t even looking out the window, trying to deduce anything. He was looking at John, and John felt a strange kind of lump in his throat. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face all that well, but the brief flashes of streetlight gave him a hint, a glance at the kind of love he’d been so lucky to find. To have.

            He hoped that Sherlock could see the same. That was what this was all about, after all.

            It wasn’t until they got out that Sherlock broke the silence. “The Coliseum?”

            The old theatre loomed above them.

            John gave the cabby twenty quid and grinned at his lover. “Well, not the inside.”

            He’d checked this out thoroughly last week, and was relieved to see the same easy path up. Sherlock seemed to know it, but his expression was still puzzled as they picked their way to the roof of the building.

            Once they were at the top, John clapped his hands. “Welcome to my surprise.”

            At the sound of the clap, the lights—two lanterns—came on, showing Sherlock’s fond expression.

            “You managed it. You surprised me.”

            John beamed. “I did, didn’t I?” The cool box he’d asked Raz to set up was there, and he opened it. “It’s only tea and sandwiches for supper, but I thought we might get here long after normal times, so—”

            Sherlock kissed him. “It’s perfect,” he said when he let John go. “I just don’t totally understand yet.”

            John took his hands. “Right. Well, I had three reasons. Reason one—well, I wanted us to have a good memory involving a rooftop.” He winced as his partner flinched, gripped his hands tighter. “And that’s…well, that’s tied to the second reason, as unpleasant as it was. That day.”

            “And how, exactly, is it?”

            John rubbed small circles into Sherlock’s palms. “I’m not leaving you, love.”

            Sherlock didn’t answer.

            “You’ve been doing a brilliant job of making sure I know you’re going to stay with me this year,” John continued. “You’ve been wonderful, and I wanted to make sure you knew it too.” John tried to smile, but his lips were trembling. “I’m with you, dear. I always will be.”

            He didn’t resist as Sherlock drew him close, tucked against that familiar coat. Sherlock was shaking, and John clung on, trying to be solid for this man who’d become so vital to his life.

            “Does that have something to do with this building?”

            John shrugged. “That’s the third. It’s listed; they won’t tear it down.”

            Sherlock laughed. ‘You would check that.”

            “Well, the metaphor wouldn’t work otherwise. We’re solid, dear, and we’re going to last.”

            Sherlock held him even tighter, somehow. They stood like that for a long time.

            “Thank you, John.”

            “I love you,” John replied.

            “I love you too.” Sherlock kissed him again, longer than before.

            “Happy anniversary, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I know this isn't the anniversary of this fic, but it is my one year anniversary of being on this site, so I wanted to write something appropriate. This has been a crazy, wonderful year, and I want to thank all of my readers for being a part of it.   
> Quick sneak peek at the next month or so; a couple new SPN fics, the beginning of a Harry Potter series, and of course, more Sherlock, though I'm not sure when exactly (SEASON 4 STARTS TOMORROW CAN YOU BELIEVE IT I HOPE EVERYONE CAN WATCH IT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE). And...well, I can't say too much, but it is a New Year, right? Good to start off with a bang.   
> Also, I have an email dedicated to this account. You can reach me at acme146@gmail if you want to send prompts, ask questions, or just chat, I'd love to hear from you.   
> Cheers, and Happy New Year's once again,   
> Acme


End file.
